


Trespasser

by Umerue



Series: A Series of Unfortunate Events - Roshan Lavellan [1]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Angst, Character Turned Into a Ghost, Crack Relationships, Doomed Relationship, F/F, F/M, Gen, Humor, Lavellan God-Bait, Mythal's revenge, Not Beta Read, Presumed Dead, Romance, The Taken Shape, Trespasser Spoilers, Well of Sorrows
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-10
Updated: 2015-10-31
Packaged: 2018-04-20 01:49:43
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 12
Words: 42,935
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4769021
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Umerue/pseuds/Umerue
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After the events of Trespasser, Lavellan is judged by Exalted Council.</p><p>After facing her judgement, she finds out two things. 1) Not making Morrigan drink from Well of Sorrows was a huge mistake. 2) Her indomitable focus and bright spirit attract only the worst kind of people. Like wannabe gods. And Mythal thinks it's great. She makes poor Lavellan date entire pantheon for revenge.</p><p>Do not read if you haven't played the DLC. The tags refer to this story, not Trespasser DLC, so they're safe. Angst, crack and romance. Updates on Saturdays.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Judgement

**Author's Note:**

> This story is attempt to fill a delicious plothole I think was missed by DLC because it has to cater for all races and romances. I mean the inevitable backlash caused by Solas' reveal, and what it means to elves. Or speficially to Lavellan as a member of her race. 
> 
> Solas and elven Inquisitor can talk about this after Haven avalanche when he reveals the orb is elven, and they must prepare for what humans will do when they find out. One of options is to say that humans will blame elves eventually, and Solas agrees the Inquisitor is correct.
> 
> Now, after Trespasser, it's way worse. 
> 
> How many people will believe Lavellan had nothing to do with Solas' plans? They were lovers, and everyone knew it. Lavellan can tell Vivienne during the spa day that she is still not over him two years later. Elfiest elf couple ever, and Lavellan having Fen'Harel's magic imprinted on her hand? Activating all those elven artefacts for Veil? Or Solas taking Lavellan's vallaslin away, just like in Fen'Harel mosaics, and still she had no idea? Or even the fact she, an elf, happened to be at the Conclave at first place, and became the Herald! For an outsider, it *does* sound like those two planned the whole thing before it even happened. 
> 
> If even the Qunari believe Lavellan serves Fen'Harel, will the human nobility of Thedas, the Chantry, practically everyone else INCLUDING enemies of Inquisition/Inquisitor just dismiss what happened and say "Oh, we believe you are innocent and wholly ignorant. And we also believe when you say that you are the only elf on whole Thedas whom Fen'Harel didn't let join his cause to save knife-ear race."
> 
> I don't think so.

 “So you honestly expect this council to believe you had no idea your lover is a heretical god called Fen’Harel?” Divine Victoria asked.  
“He isn’t a god.” Lavellan said. “He’s one of Evanuris. Not a god. Just a very powerful, immortal mage.”  
“Just like Corypheus.” the Divine stated. The members of Exalted Council looked at each other, their expressions grim.  
“You told Seeker Pentaghast that Fen’Harel seeks to tear down the Veil and destroy the world.” Arl Teagan read from a paper. “Is this true?”  
“Yes.” Lavellan replied carefully. “That is why the Inquisition must continue, to stop him.”  
“The Inquisition he helped to build.” Teagan noted. “When this summit began, you told several people that Inquisition planned to lay down their arms. Your spymaster, Mother Giselle, and Divine Victoria all recall you saying so. And then, merely two days later, a Qunari faction controlled by your lover tries to cause an explosion at Winter Palace.”  
“Solas does not control the qunari.” Lavellan said. “He... He merely told his agents to put the body here so I would investigate and stop the Qunari invasion.”  
The Exalted Council did not look pleased.  
“And why would he want that?” Divine asked sharply. “To give you an excuse to let Inquisition continue?”  
“He wanted to lure me there.” Lavellan said, willing not to look at her empty sleeve. “To explain. And take the Anchor. “  
“A secret meeting of two lovers ending in dismemberment?” the Orlesian duke Cyril asked, raising his eyebrows. “Pray tell, Inquisitor, how stupid you think we are? Do you expect us to believe kisses were exchanged before he took your hand? In literal sense?”  
Lavellan’s face burned with shame but she kept her mouth shut.  
“What proof do you have that you are not his accomplice?” Arl Teagan demanded. “You could have been working with him all along! A Dalish spy, sent to Conclave. You bore his mark! You were lovers, and you still expect us believe it was all just a coincidence.”  
“I have no proof, except my word. I am not Fen’Harel’s agent!” Lavellan shouted, anger and embarrassment burning inside her.  
“You expect us to believe you are the only elf on whole Thedas who wouldn’t want to ‘save the elvhen people’?” Duke Cyril queried. “When you became Inquisitor, you declared that ‘an elf will stand for us all’.”  
“For once, Ferelden agrees with Orlais. Report by Seeker states that you spoke with spirit guardians of Fen’Harel’s sanctuary and they let you pass, even though they attacked the qunari.”  
“It was the Well of Sorrows.”, Lavellan defended herself.  
“Oh, yes, the mysterious magic well you drank from. We have written account about you setting out to meet Mythal, and sending your companions away before praying at her altar. How we can trust you, when you keep having private meetings with heathen gods?” Divine Victoria demanded.  
When Lavellan saw Josephine starting to weep against Cullen’s shoulder, she knew this hearing was not going to end well.  
“If you truly were as naïve and ignorant as you claim, it’s hard to understand how you could lead Inquisition for two years without guidance of your lover. Do you work for Fen’Harel, or do you not?” Divine Victoria asked, and her face looked like it was carved in stone. “I must warn you to be honest, Inquisitor. We will not suffer anyone threating the heart of Andrastian faith or the safety of our world.”  
“I don’t work for him!” Lavellan shouted, her rage echoing from the chamber walls. She saw her death in shemlen eyes, and her temper got better of her. “I asked to join him, but he wouldn’t have me! I am the only elf in fucking Thedas who _can’t_ join Solas, because he says he walks the path of death and doesn’t want me to see what he becomes. He kissed me, stole my hand, and walked away. This is the second time he did this to me! Except last time it was my vallaslin!”  
The crowd burst in laughter and screams.  
“So your main defence, my dear, is that you have atrocious taste in men.” Divine Victoria’s elegant voice cut through the noise. “I fear it simply isn’t enough to convince me. Condemned.”  
“Condemned.” Arl Teagan said.  
“Condemned.” Duke Cyril agreed.  
“I object!” a familiar, male voice yelled from the door. “Tevinter objects! Everyone with any sense in their heads objects!”  
Lavellan turned to look and saw Dorian standing at the door between two guards. He looked dishevelled, like he had ran here, and Cassandra stood there behind him.  
“Even if Tevinter was a member of Exalted Council, which it isn’t, the votes would fall three against one.” Divine Victoria said coolly. “And having _Tevinter_ as your only defender scarcely does you any good.”  
“Cut the act, Vivienne! This is Lavellan we are talking about, don’t act like you don’t know her at all! Maker’s Breath, three days ago you were in a spa with her! I swear, if you kill my only friend, there will be consequences! I will propose a war in Magisterium!” Dorian yelled.  
“And now we have moved to threats.” Divine Victoria noted coolly. “Magister Pavus or the nation he represents has no voice in this council. Inquisitor Roshan Lavellan is sentenced to death for relinquishing the anchor to her accomplice, Fen’Harel, so he can use it to destroy the Veil. You will be burned at stake on the day after tomorrow at dawn.”  
“I didn’t give anchor to him!” Lavellan screamed as Divine’s templars started dragging her away. “He _took_ it to save my life, you idiots! I swear you will regret this!”  
The council chamber was filled with noise and last thing Lavellan saw before doors closed was Dorian’s furious face.

 

She had expected another prison, but the templars didn’t take her towards dungeons. Their journey was much shorter. A guard opened back door leading to palace garden, and Lavellan’s eyes widened as she saw a mountain of straw and wood piled around a pole, and almost fifty templars standing around it, blades bared.  
“No.”, she said in small voice, and mortal fear crushed her heart so hard she barely could breathe.  
"I’m sorry, lass.” one of the templars holding her said. His eyes were not unkind. “But your people would have tried to break you out, if Divine had given them time to come up with a plan.”

Lavellan felt completely numb as they tied her at the stake. Since she had only one hand, they fastened a lyrium-infused chain around her chest and another around her legs. The chains felt like a cold bite on her skin, and when she tried to gather her mana to blast her way out, it was no use. The metal blocked her connection to Fade, and without anchor, she had no catalyst for her rift magic.

When the straws around her feet started to burn and she smelled the smoke rising from flames, her fear was replaced by anger. She had given up everything to build Inquisition. Her life, her freedom, her clan. And this was how humans repaid the favour? By burning their saviour at stake the moment she became useless? Leliana had been too right when she warned that they feared the hand that directed it all. The shemlen were like a pack of wild dogs, descending upon their prey the moment it became vulnerable.

It would have been far better death to die with the Anchor, in Solas’ arms. Oh, Solas. That bloody fool. Both of them had trusted too much.  
“I curse you for your mercy, vhenan.” Lavellan hissed with pain when the first flames started to lick her feet. “You should not have saved me.”  
When her trousers caught flame, Lavellan hoped she would not have found out the truth about the Evanuris. She wanted to pray, to scream for help and divine intervention, but there were no gods to save her. The Well in her mind was utterly quiet, not offering even one word of comfort or solace.

She tried not to cry, but the pain was too much. The smoke was even worse than the flames, stealing her breath and making her throat constrict painfully. When her hair caught a flying sparkle and ignited, Lavellan no longer cared about what it looked like.  
She knew she was going to die, and Falon’Din was just an imprisoned Evanuris, not a god like she had believed for all her life. There was nobody to take her soul to Beyond. She would not meet her father again, or anyone, because there was no afterlife, nothing. Only an end amidst smoke and flames. Lavellan had never felt so alone.  
“Mamae!” she cried hysterically, the pain making her words shrill and stumbling. “Mamae ma halani! Keeper Deshanna! Mahanon! Ma halani, Lavellan, ma halani!”  
She was twenty-nine years old and had not screamed her mother or her brother for help at least for two decades. The templars standing in guard were muttering in low voices, looking uncomfortable, almost ashamed. They had expected curses, or defiance, not a pitiful, maimed woman crying for her mother and clan.  
“You frigging arses!” someone shouted from the roof, but there was too much smoke. And odd smell, like smoked meat. It reminded Lavellan of home. Not Skyhold, but the forests of Wycome.  Her mind was dizzy, and she could no longer feel the flames.  
“Fasta vass!” a man’s voice shouted. He was very afraid, or angry. Or both.  
“I will help.” someone whispered in her ear.

“Don’t you dare to die on me!” Dorian demanded as he held Lavellan up while Cassandra hacked her chains with a sword. The stake was covered with ice, and smoking.  
“I don’t think she hears you.” Cole said. The spirit was oblivious to battle raging around them.  
“Be quicker with those damned chains!” Dorian yelled at Cassandra. “Why your Chantry has anti-magic chains in the first place! Such travesty would never be allowed in Tevinter!”  
“I’m trying!” Cassandra’s voice was hoarse. “You are not the only one who loved her!”  
“This is not the moment for past tense!” tears glistened in Dorian’s eyes.  
The chains snapped off, finally, and Dorian started preparing all his mana into healing spell. He was no healer, damnit, but he _would try_.  
“Look.”, Cole said, nudging Dorian who was desperately trying to keep her alive.  
Lavellan’s skin was a mess of black and red, weeping ruin, but now that the chains were gone, there were of blue, intricate runes glowing on her. Her charred lips moved ever so slowly, and Dorian bent down to hear what she said.  
“Vir Mythal’enaste. Mythal sulevin.”, the Inquisitor whispered, and then she no longer moved.

\--

Lavellan did not understand what had happened. She was in the Winter Palace, and the ground was littered with dead and dying. There were templars, Orlesians, Ferelden soldiers and many wearing the Inquisition colours. And in the middle of mess, Dorian was crying. His makeup was getting shoddy.  
“Dorian? What is wrong?” she asked, but Dorian paid her no attention.  
“He can’t hear you.” Cole said sadly, lifting up his gaze. “You died.”


	2. Afterlife sucks

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lavellan's earlier choices come to haunt her.

Lavellan stared at her dead body, trying to understand what had happened. Creators, she looked _horrible_.

“Cole. What happened?” she asked helplessly.  
“You were bound, chained, cut away.” Cole said, looking miserable. “Your mother would have tried to help you, if she only heard. She doesn’t know you died. But the other mother heard.”  
“What other mother?” Lavellan clung to his words, even though Cole made even less sense than usually.  
“You shall be bound forever to will of Mythal.” Cole told her seriously. “Sorrow said so. You said so, before you died. You gave up a part of yourself to her.”  
Lavellan closed her eyes, and startled when she suddenly heard the Well. But it was no longer whispering. Now the Well was a chorus of harmony, more like a song than a speech. It echoed so loudly in her ears that it filled her whole world. A shout from heavens, truly, just like Morrigan had described.  
“Come.”, the voices called, and Lavellan found herself turning away from her friends. Her legs started moving on their own.She walked through the fight, through the fighters, and it felt odd. She almost screamed when she walked through a wall.  
“What’s happening to me?” she cried out. “Cole!”  
“Don’t be afraid. I will help you. You are too light, now. You go through things. It doesn’t hurt. You just remember how it used to be.” Cole said eagerly.  
Her feet pulled her through two more walls, and Lavellan felt like throwing up. This had been the worst day in her whole life.  
“It can’t get worse.” Cole said helpfully, picking up her hurt. “You can’t _live_ through anything worse."  
  
Fenedhis lasa. Although Lavellan loved Cole dearly, sometimes he was just too willing to help.

When Lavellan looked up and found herself staring at very familiar eluvian, now surrounded by seven templars who didn’t even notice her, she shook her head in disgust.  
“You have to be kidding me.”, she told the Well. “There is no way I’m going back there.”  
Instead of sweet harmony, the voices cackled at her.

\--

She knew she had made mistakes. In hindsight, many of them were glaringly obvious. When Lavellan had told Vivienne that she believed mages should be in the Chantry, she had not meant to encourage Vivienne to become Divine. Lavellan had merely thought that mage leadership worked just fine with the Dalish, and maybe accepting mages would finally end the futile feud between mages and templars. Or the time they had talked about teaching people not to fear mages. Vivienne had been one of the few who agreed her choice to drink from the Well, because Morrigan could not be trusted. Lavellan thought they had been friends. She had always known Vivienne was a politician, but mere three days ago they had spent a lovely afternoon at the spa, and Vivienne had asked about Solas with compassion, and...  
“I can’t make you forget anymore.” Cole apologized they walked through the broken paths between mirrors. “Even though you hurt.”  
“I just feel like a fool.” Lavellan said, swallowing her tears. “I never thought Vivienne would do this to me.”  
“She believed she did what she had to do. I’m sorry, my friend, but we can’t endanger the safety of whole Thedas by having you lead the effort against Solas. You might be just a woman who loved too much, and truly forsaken by your lover, but you are bound by geas to Mythal, an arrow pointed at the heart of Andrastian faith. I regret the choice I have to make, and I hope you find peace, wherever you go.” Cole recited. “She wrote a letter to you last night, when you came back without hand. And then she burned it, before anyone saw, but she wanted to write the words down to make them true.”  
“Having solid reasoning doesn’t change inexcusable action into right one.” Lavellan snapped. “I thought someone had to drink from the Well, and I didn’t trust Morrigan. And now I’m… something. Ghost? Spirit? Undead?”  
“Solas tries to mend his hurt. I think I will like the world without Veil.” Cole mused.  
“It means this world would have to die, first.” Lavellan pointed out. “Thousands of innocent people would get hurt, and die. It would be as bad as what happened to Vir Dirthara. I have no reason to love shemlen after what they did to me, but it still doesn’t make it right. You can’t make the same wrong choice twice and expect it would work out better on second time. My People aren’t his People, but it doesn’t make us an acceptable sacrifice.”  
The Well stirred inside her mind.  
“A clever lass.” the voices sang in unison, sounding pleased.  
Lavellan blinked.  
“Is something wrong?” Cole asked worriedly.  
“The Well is behaving oddly. It cackled at me at some time ago, and now it’s complimenting me. Like a snarky grandmother.”  
“I told you don’t want so many voices inside your head.” Cole said sadly.  
“Yes, you did.” Lavellan sighed. “Let’s just add it to list of my mistakes, shall we?”

“What is supposed to happen to people when they die?” Lavellan asked as Cole activated the next eluvian.  
She was too incorporeal to touch anything, and had to rely on spirit’s help.  
“I don’t know. They usually pass through the Fade, and then I no longer see them.”  
“When I was dying, I wished the gods were real. It was comforting to think that Falon’Din would have come for me. I used to think I would see my father again, and it would be just like sleeping.”  
“He would have come, once.” Cole cocked his head on the side. “But only for those who were his. Solas remembers. They got a last moment of peace, in exchange of their magic.”  
“Of course.” Lavellan said sadly. “Yet another power-hungry creature, who fought to get more followers. In our stories, he was kind. It was just my luck to choose his vallaslin instead of someone nicer.”  
“You shouldn’t let it hurt you.” Cole said seriously. “Your intentions were pure. You thought it was right choice at the time. Falon’Din, Friend to Dead, guide papae safely to Beyond. Carry him where I can’t follow.”  
“It’s not like it matters anymore. Giving up my vallaslin was a good choice.”  
“But there are lines on your face. Mother’s tree.”  
“WHAT?!?”

 

\--

 

“Abelas.”, one of his sentinel brothers, Rasanor was shaking him awake. “There is something odd going on behind the doors of the shrine.”  
“What do you mean?” Abelas asked. He was feeling cranky. He had trouble falling asleep without the geas of their old temple, and he seriously wished Rasanor had not woken him up just because he overreacted. The youth was born just before Fall, and many of the remaining ruins of their empire were strange to him.  
“I hear voices behind the door, but when I looked with magic, I didn’t see anyone.”  
“It could be just a fragment of old spirit. Or echo of a memory.”  
“They are bickering. The female one demands the male to kick the doors open, because she is ‘fed up with Mythal and her band of stuffy ancients and especially the snarky well who keeps cackling at her misery’. I think she’s referring to us.” Rasanor said, looking offended.  
Abelas bolted up.

He had just gotten into main hall, when the doors to shrine were thrown wide. He saw two people striding in. A male in too big hat looked uneasy and his posture was a bit ashamed, but the female, who walked in first, was blazing with wrath. He recognized that face. Except something was wrong. She was not supposed to be marked for Mythal. And something else--  
“Abelas!” the shemlen woman glared at him. “Now you tell me what the fuck this means!”  
Abelas straightened himself and glared right back.  
“I told you, shemlen, that we will not impart any more secrets to you or your organization. Your people are—“  
“Don’t you dare to shemlen me!” Lavellan screamed. “I have had a horrible day, and I swear, if you shemlen me one more time, I will not be responsible of what happens.”  
She strode to Abelas, her eyes shining with anger. Rasanor took a step back, but Abelas did not move.  
“My own hand tried to kill me. I stopped a Qunari invasion. I found out that my lover is Fen’Harel, and he feels he has to destroy the world even though my People will die. Then he kissed me while he disintegrated my arm and dumped me again. The man had nerve to tell he’ll never forget me! And then, like it wouldn’t have been bad enough, I went to warn others about his plans.” Lavellan gestured furiously. “Dou you know what happened then?”  
“No.”, Rasanor replied behind Abelas’ back, strangely enchanted by her wrath.  
“The shemlen burned me at stake!” Lavellan’s voice was so shrill that it hurt Abelas’ eardrums. “They burned me alive, and I _died_! And I didn’t even get to rest in peace, because your fucking Well put stupid tree on my face and told me to come here. You are the last people I want to see, and I hope you all will choke on your special ancient elfyness! ”  
As Abelas understood what had happened, he fought the urge to cover his face with his palms. Oh, Mythal’s mercy.  
“That last bit, blaming us, was entirely uncalled for.”, Rasanor exclaimed, sounding offended.  
“Say that again after _you_ have been burned to death by people you fought to save.” Lavellan glared at him.  
“Can I banish her?” Rasanor asked from Abelas.  
“No.”, Abelas said with a pained voice. “As much as I regret and wonder why Great Protector allowed this to happen, the situation is clear. This sheml-- manifestation is the Well of Sorrows, now, and speaks as the voice of Mythal.”

 


	3. Mythal's orders

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mythal reveals her will to Lavellan and her sentinels.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was inspired by discussion I read from Solas thread on Bioware forum. Before Trespasser, people were thinking how it would go if Lavellan had another pantheon romance. Drosophila wrote excellent snippets on that, and I loved the idea. You can find the discussion here:  
> http://forum.bioware.com/topic/508118-solas-thread-not-a-trespasser-spoilerfree-zone/page-4540

“Again.”, Abelas was not giving up. “Your own perception is limiting you, shemlen. Not having a body is not a reason to think you don’t still have your magic.”  
“You nag like a Keeper.” Lavellan snapped, feeling irritated. The sentinels were kneeling in complicated pattern around her, holding their part of the spell with effortless ease. Only thing missing was the smallest spark from her.  
“Think it this way, shemlen. Sooner we hear what Mythal wants, sooner this ends. I promise to banish you personally when your task is finished.”  
“Banish me so I will be dead for good?” Lavellan asked. She was very exhausted and heartbroken. A thought of disintegrating into green sparks like her arm was best thing she had heard after Solas’ unlucky line “I expect you have questions”.  
“Yes.”, Abelas said firmly, and Lavellan believed him. Her opinion of general trustworthiness of ancient elves was not very good, but he didn’t think Abelas would bother to lie to her.  
“He will keep his word.” Cole said eagerly. “Think about Keeper. A smallest spark will do.”  
Lavellan imagined closing her eyes – she didn’t have any – and visioned the familiar soft darkness of forest. Sparks were flying from the campfire, and she opened the palm of her hand, adding her own. The small spark was caught in a net of light, and Lavellan felt cold water filling her soul.

“There you are.” Mythal’s words flowed from her lips.  
“We are yours to command, Great Protector.”, Abelas said, holding a fist against his heart while he knelt.  
“The Dread Wolf murdered what was left of me to strengthen his own power. But my revenge has already begun.” Mythal’s voice sounded almost happy. In very spiteful way. “At this very moment, the news of love he denied and sent to her death have reached Fen’Harel. He is a man without his heart, now, and weeps the bitter tears of loss.”  
“I hope he gets a headache of a century.” Lavellan said bitterly. “No, vhenan, there is only death on this journey. Live in peace, while time remains. My death is his fault. Entirely his fault.”  
Mythal laughed.  
“It is very satisfying to hear his howling. And since you performed so splendidly in this, you will be the instrument of reckoning which will shake the very heavens. I want to see the Evanuris weep like Fen’Harel weeps now. I want to see them freed, only to make them fall. I want to see them betrayed as I was betrayed, as the world was betrayed.”  
“We will do as you order, Mythal.” Abelas promised, his golden eyes shining with devotion.  
“Good.” the goddess said. “Send Lavellan to each of the Evanuris in turn. Make them fall for her, for her shining, unique spirit. I want them to feel as fierce love as Fen’Harel did, and then it all will be taken away. I need them to feel the dagger in their hearts when it’s time for my final reckoning. You will be that dagger, Lavellan, and my sentinels will help you.”  
The sentinels moved as one unit, all moving their right hand on their heart as a sign of obedience.  
“Stop!” Lavellan screamed, using her indomitable focus to override the Will. “Did you just say that you’ll pimp me out to each false god? You can’t be serious! This is the worst plan I’ve ever heard!”  
Mythal started to cackle.  
“You have something of a track record in this particular field, dear girl. Fen’Harel fell in love with you in mere months, even though he thought you weren’t even real. Corypheus, an aspiring god, wanted your hand more than anything. Avvar god, Hakkon Wintersbreath, watches your steps even now, patiently waiting for a moment when you are free in mind and body. I imagine that had you not drank from my Well, you would be enjoying his freezing welcome embrace right now.”  
“You are lying.” Lavellan said, trying very hard not to run away screaming. She doubted she would get past Abelas, even though she was incorporeal.  
“I could unbind you, if you wish to test the truth of my words.” Mythal offered mockingly.  
“Is it true about Hakkon and all others?” Abelas asked, watching Lavellan with healthy amount of doubt. “She doesn’t look that special to me.”  
“Like I said, her charm attracts only certain kind of people, and you have too much common sense to fall for our god-bait. But we have no time to waste. The day of my revenge is coming.” Mythal’s voice purred with dark glee.  
“You can trust us, my lady. I think we will start with June.” Abelas swore, and Lavellan understood with terrible clarity that dying at stake was not a worst thing which could happen to a person. Not by far.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next week: Lavellan tries to date June, the God of Craft, with Abelas as her wingman.


	4. June

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> With June, everything is a bit better. So perfect.

“June likes people who are clever, but not smart enough to rival his intellect. He values aesthetics and is perfectionist to fault.” Abelas recited from little notebook he held.  
“Tell me we aren’t going to go through with this.” Lavellan said unhappily as Abelas and the rest of Mythal’s sentinels stopped in front of a beautifully carved stone wall.  
“His favourite hobbies are crafting—“  
“Bows, arrows, knives.” Lavellan interrupted. “God of Craft.”  
“He isn't as benevolent as the Dalish think.” Abelas glared at him. “Your legends are wrong.”  
Lavellan sighed.  
“What a surprise.” she said sarcastically. “If I told you that the sky is blue, you would undoubtedly tell me that it is actually green, but Dalish got it wrong because the colour changed after the Veil.”  
The sentinels around her fell silent, looking uncomfortably at one another.  
“Fenedhis lasa.” Lavellan cursed, utterly frustrated. “I’ve had enough of this. Just open the damned prison already.”

Once she would have thought it a thing of beauty to see Abelas and the rest of the sentinels work magic. They were everything young Lavellan had thought her people had been once. Their casting was smooth, effortless; their spells sharp and focused. But the truth tasted bitter on her tongue. The ancient elves whom she had once admired were far too busy sneering at Dalish to admit that the state of their descendants was their fault, and they didn’t even want to do anything to help the Dalish. No. They were far too busy with their own plots and games, serving their false gods and complaining about state of today while their descendants were massacred like lambs. Oh, how Lavellan hated the ancients for that. They could have done so much for the Dalish and city elves, even as diminished as they were, but chose to do nothing.

Solas had called him vhenan. But where had he been when she started to burn? Where had he been, when she cried for her mother, for her brother, for anyone to help her? If he could turn people into stone with merely looking at them, why didn’t he come to help her? Surely his spies in Inquisition had told him that Divine Victoria had judged Lavellan guilty. If there were so many, why hadn’t they helped?

And if he couldn’t have taken her with him, why to leave her alone and senseless with pain, with only one route for return? Straight to arms of shemlen, a world filled with questions she tried to answer but failed. Lavellan could not understand why Solas hadn’t thought of what would happen to her afterwards. He knew as well as anyone how unfair world could be. He had been the one to remark how only friends could betray you. The question keeping her awake at night was this one: Had Solas not cared enough to look after her when she was weak and unable to do it herself, or had it been his plan to let her walk to her death all along? Lavellan was convinced that he had truly loved her, and was grieving for her death, but she couldn’t stop thinking how it had made things much easier for Solas, too. There was no danger that anyone could make him change his mind anymore, and a noticeable political advantage to be had as well. Lavellan was an unwilling martyr for the cause of elves now, her death a proof that there could not be peaceful co-existence between humans and elves. Even those Dalish clans who viewed Fen’Harel with suspicion would choose him now, because they had no other option left. After Inquisitor’s death in shemlen hands, it was win or die, because attempting to play by humans’ rules had once again ended so badly.

Her heart was numb after so many blows. Loss of Solas, loss of her arm, betrayal by her friend, loss of her life. She wanted nothing more than it to end. Lavellan lifted up her weary gaze when Abelas barked a command, and Well of Sorrows pushed her to slip through a narrow opening the sentinels had made to stone wall. As the ghost of Lavellan slipped through the crack into darkness behind the stone wall, she hoped June would kill her on spot and prove Mythal wrong.

 

It did not go like she had expected. Lavellan had barely slipped through the narrow opening the sentinels had torn for her when it closed. She fell on the stone floor. It was a good thing she didn’t have a corporeal body. It would have hurt like hell by now. Amputation, burning, and then fall from heights.  
The chamber she had entered was filled with boxes. She peeked inside one, and frowned. It was filled with acorns. The next one had thin gold plates, and the third one had sticks, neatly categorized by length.  
A glimmer in the corner drew her attention. On a large table, there was a selection of different beads, each perfectly symmetrical. They were carved from stone, wood or bone and polished until they shone. Seeing something familiar after such a long time made Lavellan smile. The Dalish used them for decorations. When she had been younger, she had once made a bracelet for her mother’s birthday.  
She attempted to touch them, but her hand just slipped through the table and beads. Feeling frustrated, Lavellan remembered how Abelas had coaxed her to work magic to summon Mythal, all the while lecturing how her own mind was limiting her. There was perfectly nice ball of twine next to beads, and she could use some relaxation. If June was here somewhere, it wasn’t her problem. Well of Sorrows wasn’t cackling at the moment, and she really liked the green bead on the table. Maybe a headband. It would complement her eyes nicely. The Well agreed, and Lavellan focused, channelling all her mana to her hands. When she tried again, and actually grasped a physical item, the green bead, a smile spread on her face and she felt almost happy for a moment.

She had lost all sense of time, pleasantly occupied by her chosen design. It was one of the traditional Dalish patterns, but the flawless beads made it even better somehow. Only thing left was trying to decide which colour to put in the centre. Nothing seemed right. Black made it too monochromatic, and green lacked certain edge. Lavellan tried blue, but it stood out in wrong way. Grey was just…boring.  
“This one.” someone said behind her shoulder, pointing at the iridescent white pearl made of halla bone.  
She took the white pearl and slipped it on place. He was right; it was perfect. Lavellan’s bruised heart swelled with pride as she looked at her work. When she turned to look brown-haired, somehow nondescript elf behind her, the pleasure she felt shone from her eyes and made her beautiful, and June found himself answering her smile.

 

\--

“How did you end up in here?” June asked one day as they happily sat on the floor and arranged beads by size and colour.  
“I was killed by humans and because I had drank from Mythal’s stupid Well, she forced me to come here instead letting me die peacefully.” Lavellan replied. “It’s unfair.”  
June hummed under his breath, throwing one of the feathers to waste pile. Lavellan didn’t usually get why he threw things there, but Abelas had been right when he claimed June was a perfectionist. He threw out everything which wasn’t beautiful, even if it was perfectly functional.  
“It’s nice to have company.” he said. “And I really like the bracelet you are making. The colours melt together perfectly.”  
Lavellan looked away, internally scolding herself. She knew these elvhen gods. She should know better than fall again. One smile and clever remark about her indomitable focus, and where it had taken her? To be burned at stake!  
“This one would work.” June pushed another bead towards her.  
Lavellan slipped it on place, knotting the twine and smiled even though she didn’t mean to.  
“Thank you. It’s just like I remember.”  
“I find your Dalish designs intriguing.” June told her. “There is certain sense of wilderness. Untamed and simple, but all more beautiful for that.”

“You do?” Lavellan’s eyes widened. “But they are not like yours. Not elvhen.”  
“Being less gilded and refined does not make them less beautiful.” June said, and Lavellan felt her throat tightening. It was something she would have wanted to hear years ago, from another person. She felt like crying. But she blinked back tears and offered her finished work to June with shaking hands.  
“Thank you. This will always remind me of your people and their skill.” June accepted her gift with genuinely pleased smile and when he slipped the bracelet around his wrist, Lavellan knew this was going to end badly.

They slipped into comfortable routine, which made Lavellan wonder if Solas had gotten it right when he had claimed that Evanuris would have destroyed the world if he hadn’t imprisoned them. June didn’t seem to harbour any murderous tendencies. He was perfectly happy with his projects. Most of the dungeon was filled with flawless finished items. There were enough enchanted artefacts to blast whole Thedas seven days to Sunday, and more jewels than Empress Celene owned. He had rugs and pillows and bows and arrows and even doomsday machine or two.  
Lavellan felt stupidly proud on the day when he asked her to assist him. It was mostly passing tools to him as he built something, but it made her feel useful. And a bit flattered.  
“Could you give me size 0.75 pincers, please?” June asked as he weaved complex magic around the thing he was building from raw Fade, seventeen acorns, two metal hooks and three golden plates.  
Lavellan passed him the item required, secretly smug because she knew the difference between size 0.75 and 0.70. June was a patient teacher, and always ready to provide complete answers. No lies by omission, here.  
“What are you building?” she asked.  
“It’s a surprise.” he replied. “You have to wait.”  
“Is it a good surprise?” Lavellan asked, feeling a bit uncomfortable.  
“It’s for you. I hope it makes you smile.” he said as he slid under the construct again.

On the evenings, they discussed the Dalish culture. June wanted to know everything about aravels, tools they used and how they built their bows. But he didn’t sneer. Instead, he started drawing a series of improvements for aravels, asking for more and more details until Lavellan found herself staring at new Aravel 2.0 which could actually fly through shemlen lands without any halla and the red sails could be used to stop the aravel in the middle of air for limited period of time.  
“Why you don’t sneer at my People?” she asked one night, trying to hold back tears.  
June looked perplexed.  
“Why should I?” he asked. “I’m happy to see people improve themselves.”  
“But all your People sneer at my People.” Lavellan tried to explain. “They call us shadows. Not real.”  
“Making oneself real is a very simple thing. I’m sure the Dalish could do it, if someone instructed them.” June disagreed. “I can show you how. I invented myself, after all.”

He was true to his word. He held her hand through every step of creating herself a new corporeal body, and did not leave her alone when she was afraid to bind herself into a mess of materials collected from June’s boxes.  
“Don’t worry.” he said, his voice earnest. “I know what I’m doing. You deserve a body which shines as brightly as your spirit. I know every line of it by heart, and I will make you perfect.”

Lavellan took his hand, and closed her eyes when he started to weave his magic together with hers.  
“I will never forsake you.” he swore, holding her hand. “I will not leave you alone.”  
And the fool she was, Lavellan believed him. And when she opened her eyes again, looking at the mirror June held for her, she was still herself, just more. Every line curved into perfect symmetry, the colour of her eyes a shade richer to complement her skin. Her breasts were exactly the same size, instead of being a bit more rounded on left, and when she whirled slowly around in front of the mirror, she had to stop to admire her legs. There wasn’t a single blemish anywhere.  
“Do you want your surprise now?” June asked, looking at her with warm eyes.  
“Yes.” Lavellan decided.  
“I have been building a machine for specific purpose. I would like to leave this place. I was content until I met you, but now I feel my work here is done. I want to meet the Dalish you have spoken about. Meet your Keeper, and ask for her permission. Help your People.”  
Lavellan felt breathless. It was odd feeling after being incorporeal for so long. But even if she died, June had assured that she could simply invent herself again and construct her body anew.  
“Do you truly mean it? What did you mean about meeting my Keeper?” she asked.  
“In all my years, I’ve never met a spirit like yours.” June said honestly. “I would ask for your Keeper’s permission, and then do what your people do. I’m not a hunter, but bringing you a pelt of a suitable beast would be simple enough.”  
Lavellan pushed her hand against the cold stone wall for support. She felt faint. This could not be happening. It wasn’t real.  
“Do you find it agreeable?” June asked. He was sweet, and worried. “I know I’m moving a bit fast, but you know what I’m like. There is something in you I can’t resist. I would make you happy, my love.”  
“Happy how?” Lavellan’s answer was almost a squeak, but she found out that her voice came out high but absurdly beautiful, still. Not like a ridiculous squeak.  
“I would marry you.” June said. “We would have children. And be happy. Save your People from the human tyranny. They would be still Dalish, but better.  
“Yes.”, Lavellan said, her heart blooming with love. “A hundred times yes.”  
June’s ordinary features melted in smile, and he gathered her in his arms, kissing her for the first time. And for a moment, Lavellan could almost see the life ahead of her. Finer aravels. Marriage. Her mother crying at her wedding. Their children. Everything she loved, just a bit better.

June wasn’t without faults, naturally. He could be absent-minded when he was working on something, forgetting to eat or forgetting he had promised not to stay up late. But Lavellan forgave him, because it made him just more humane, and she forgot things, too. Just not as often. And he was so beautiful when he was rapturous by some new invention, the thrill of idea shining from his brown eyes like a living flame.  
June was perfectionist to a point of annoyance. Lavellan no longer wondered why his vallaslin was prettiest of them all. He could rip something he had worked on for years just because it didn’t satisfy his impossible standards. But then he simply started again, and it came out better. Lavellan decided it was a good thing. After all, her last boyfriend had not been the example of making great choices or decisions. Solas’ attempts to make things right usually ended up worse. Like this destroying the world-thing. After they finished the machine for prison break, she really should talk about this with June, because destroying the world would ruin their plans and Lavellan didn’t want the Veil to fall down during her wedding. It would be just her luck, and everyone would shout things about Dread Wolf catching scent or taking someone, and it would feel very awkward.

While June worked on his prison break machine, Lavellan was happily choosing silk threads for her wedding dress. She felt all fuzzy inside just thinking of it. They got along so well. He was warm and honest and good with his hands. Very good with hands. Sometimes sex with him felt like she was an instrument he was tuning for perfect pitch. Everything was so perfect with June, and he wanted it that way, because he said she didn’t deserve any less. After everything Lavellan had experienced, it was unexpected bliss. She felt safe and cherished. With him, she always knew where she stood. There were no uncertainty, and she was sure he was going to be wonderful father.

One day June told her it was almost ready.  
“It works just like I described, but I’d like to make it even better.” he said, enthusiasm shining from his eyes. “Now, it will create a huge explosion which shatters this prison. I will build us two containment chambers which will keep us alive through it. But I would like to make it even better. I have been thinking; why to limit the range to this prison, when I could break out my brethren, too. It would be nice to have my side of the family at our wedding.”  
Lavellan wasn’t sure if it was good idea, but she had been wrong about June. He was nothing like vengeful and terrible god Solas had described. And wanting one’s family to attend his wedding was a reasonable wish. She couldn’t deny it.  
“I think it is wonderful idea, and you should do it.”, she smiled, and June grinned happily.

“I’ve almost finished the containment chambers. But I think blue gem as a lock would be better than a green one.” June said one day as he looked critically at the setup in prison break room.  
“Does it make difference?” Lavellan asked absently. She couldn’t quite make up her mind whether to wear the sapphire tiara or crown of leaves June had made for her.  
“It’s aesthetic difference.” June said firmly. “It would need a red gem to be perfect, and we don’t have one.”  
“My love, it doesn’t matter.” Lavellan said, putting her hands around his neck. “It is wonderful the way it is.”  
“It isn’t.”, June disagreed. “It shouldn’t be less than it absolutely can be. The People who worship me call me Clever June. I can’t produce inferior things.”  
Lavellan felt a bit uncomfortable with his statement, and asked carefully:  
“Is that how you think, love?”  
“You don’t need to be worried, darling.” June said, sensing her distress. “You are absolutely flawless. This body combined with your bright spirit, and I couldn’t find a woman I loved more.”  
Lavellan smiled, her insecurity fleeing, and she kissed him feeling much reassured.  
“We will leave tomorrow. I have timed the machine to start when the dawn breaks.” June promised as he threw his shirt away, and Lavellan scarcely could wait. After all her suffering, she would be happy. Everything would be perfect. They would marry tomorrow at midday, when sun was on its highest point, and her mother would cry, and then they would have babies and live happily ever after. Fuck the ancient elves and their complaints about Dalish. She was going to be happy.

She made love to him slowly, her heart filled with warmth and sense of security. And when she fell asleep, exhausted, she entered the Fade with smile on her lips. Lavellan’s happy future was just around corner.

Next morning, they woke up to blast of sirens. They had slept far longer than either of them expected.  
“The containment chamber!” June yelled, jumping into his trousers before starting to run. “Quickly!”  
He ran towards the chamber with yellow gem as a lock, and locked himself inside just when the machine started to make a sharp, keening noise. Lavellan flew towards the second chamber. She had been startled when they woke up so late, but she trusted June. He had been nothing but kind, and caring. This would work, and they would be happy.  
Except there wasn’t a gem to lock her containment chamber.

Suddenly mortally afraid, Lavellan went into shock. She rattled the door, trying to hold it shut, but it wouldn’t close properly without a latch. The machine was making louder noise now, and she couldn’t keep the door shut. She would die again.

Unable to control her fear or her tears, she ran to June, who was safely enclosed by walls of crystal.  
“What should I do?” she pleaded, her heart filled with terror. “I can’t lock it. You have to let me in, love. I will die if you leave me here.”  
June looked aghast.  
“I can’t.”, she saw his lips forming the sentences she couldn’t hear through the crystal or ever louder noise of his machine. “I wanted to make this perfect, and there is no room for you here. I’m so sorry, ma lath.”  
He made no motion to open the door and let her in. She thought they could have fit inside together, even though it would have been tight and not perfect like he had planned. June could have saved him, but he chose not to. She would be just like one of his creations, torn apart because it didn’t work out like he had planned. Lavellan rattled the door in desperation, but it was locked, and she couldn’t get through it, and when she begged on her knees, he looked away.

For a moment, Lavellan’s scream of hurt and heartbreak cut through the noise the machine was making, but then the keening sound suddenly stopped, and her world exploded. Last thing she saw before her death was June’s sad face behind the wall of crystal.

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next week: heartbroken Lavellan rises from dead again and tells Abelas to pick someone who is nothing like June.


	5. Andruil

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lavellan runs for her life and tries to make it to her own funeral.
> 
> Chapter theme song: Hunting High and Low by Stratovarius. https://youtu.be/N2l8KtdQ7Ek

“Abelas. If you were going to marry next day, would you let your wife-to-be die because the door knob wasn’t the right shade?” Lavellan asked. She had been utterly quiet since her spirit materialized in Mythal’s sanctum a week ago.  
“I have never been in serious relationship. But no. I can’t see myself doing that.” Abelas answered.  
“I thought so.”, Lavellan said. “Most people won’t leave their loved ones to perish because the option to save them was aesthetically compromised.”  
“Do you want to talk about it?” Abelas asked. He was not sure what had happened after they had let Lavellan sneak inside June’s prison, but this discussion was disturbing. He had gotten reports of Evanuris being suddenly freed and swarming all over Thedas. Fen’Harel was on the run, and his plans to destroy the Veil had gotten forcibly interrupted.  
“No.”, Lavellan replied. “Just make sure that the next Evanuris on your list is insufferable prick. I would like someone who would be honest about killing me outright instead of luring me with sweet lies and half-truths.”  
“I’ll see what I can do.”, Abelas promised.

And what Abelas promised, he delivered.  
“I got a report from Exalted Plains. The tension between shemlen races has been building ever since the Divine burned the Inquisitor. It is said that elven servants managed to steal her body from Halamshiral and the Dalish clans are gathering to Exalted Plains to hold a funeral for her at Vir Bellanaris.”  
“Briala.” Lavellan’s transparent face twisted. “Or Solas. Could be either one taking advantage of my death. The Dalish have not met with flat-ears since the Dales fell and they submitted to human rule.”  
“The Orlesian empress has announced that any restlessness or rebellious declarations will be met with force. To back up her words, she has gathered an army to Exalted Plains, keeping close watch on the elves.” Abelas said neutrally. “However, there have been sightings of Evanuris in the area. If they have become familiar with your relationship with Fen’Harel, they might be waiting for him to attend your funeral. Our spies report seeing Andruil, and the twin souls are likely not far behind. Nothing excites Falon’Din like a prospect of war and death in same package. Elgar’nan’s presence is also a strong possibility. This is, after all, a perfect opportunity to gather the mortals under his banner.”  
Lavellan sighed.  
“And elves gathered there would follow any of them who presented themselves as gods, coming to save their People at last.” she said forlornly.  
“They would.” Abelas agreed.  
“Come on then, Abelas. I shouldn’t be late from my own funeral.” Lavellan remarked and glided through the wall towards nearest eluvian.

To Lavellan, the course was clear. She would not let her People to fall prey to Evanuris. She wouldn’t let Briala or Solas to use her death as a spark to ignite a rebellion, either. Rebellions never ended well for the elves, and she remembered Solas’ words too well. “We aren’t even people to you?” she had asked, her heart aching worse than her hand. His reply had told her everything she needed to know. He would take no joy destroying her world, but he was going to do it regardless. And now the Evanuris were free, and it was her fault. A bridal gift from June, their wedding guests. June, who had killed her as easily as Fen’Harel.  
A distraught laughter escaped her lips as she waited for Abelas to open the final eluvian. I will never forsake you, June had said. I will never leave you alone.  
“Are you all right?” Abelas asked her, frowning as he activated the eluvian.  
“No.”, Lavellan replied, and suppressed her laugh before it turned into tears. There was no time for that. She had to save her people. From Evanuris and humans both, before they all died in raw chaos and world burned to ashes.  
Abelas looked at her, slowly shaking his head, and said:  
“As you wish. This path leads to Fen’Harel’s shrine at Ghilan’nain’s grove. I will distract the guards, and assist you to interact with material world until you reach Evanuris. It might be difficult task. Those most likely to attend are not the ones who pay much interest to spirits. ”  
“There is no need.” Lavellan said, her face twisting in grimace. “I have a form. A gift from my ex-fiancé.”

Even though Abelas was not easily influenced, he had to admit that looking at Lavellan was distracting. It was natural to expect that June, being a perfectionist he was, would create something exquisite for his bride. But this time the God of Craft had outdone himself.  
When they encountered Fen’Harel’s agents guarding the eluvian and Lavellan pushed her hood down, it was clear that the guards were mesmerized by the sight of her. Abelas understood him well. An immortal man could spend his whole life just watching the flawlessness of June’s best work, while mortal, like this agent, had no chance at all.  
“There are at least thirteen Dalish Clans, and some of them are larger ones. Also, several hundred elves from different parts of Orlais.” the man explained, staring at Lavellan. “Empress has troops at Fort Revasan, while Citadelle du Corbeau is filled by templars.”  
“Is there anything else? What about Fen’Harel?” Lavellan asked.  
Abelas couldn’t tear his eyes away from her red lips forming the question. Lavellan’s upper lip curved like Andruil’s bow, with breath taking beauty he had never seen in a woman, mortal or immortal. That mouth was made to be kissed, to whisper soft words of love into man’s ear and make his blood burn with desire. To distract himself, Abelas kicked the stone edge of Fen’Harel’s altar. The burning pain in his foot returned him to his senses.  
“Fen’Harel came through here half an hour ago. I believe my lord is going to attend the funeral service, which is to begin at midday.” the agent said, staring Lavellan like she was a goddess made flesh.  
“Then I have no time to lose.” she said, looking at the sky. Sun was nearing its zenith.

 

 --

 

The first group of People she saw was a familiar Dalish clan, camping on the same location by the river.  
“Keeper Hawen!” Lavellan shouted as soon as she recognized the familiar grey-haired man. “Keeper Hawen! You must not go to Vir Bellanaris! It’s a trap!”  
The hunters turned to face her, bows ready, but Lavellan didn’t care. She pulled the hood of her cloak down, desperate to make them believe her.  
“It’s me. First of Lavellan. The Inquisitor.” she pleaded. “You must believe me. This is a trap. The Dread Wolf preys on you, and our gods walk free once again. But they hold no love for us; they are ready to kill us all to bring back the days of old. We aren’t real to them. Don’t believe their lies, not like I did.”  
“It is you, da’len.” Hawen looked aghast. “But Loranil... He saw you die.”  
“Is it a demon, Keeper?” Nissa asked.  
“There is no time!” Lavellan shouted, agonized. “You can’t stay here! I already told you! Our gods are here, they brought me back to life, and they are not here to help you!”  
Keeper Hawen frowned, unsure what to do. But then a bowstring sang, and Olafin fell with an arrow through his throat. A mere moment later, another arrow flew from other side of the river, and it took Nissa.  
“Golden arrows.” Loranil said, kneeling down at Nissa’s side. But there was nothing he could do. It had been a perfect shot.  
The Well of Sorrows became alive, a crowd of voices filling Lavellan’s mind.  
“It’s Andruil!” she said, feeling dread. “Andruil’s hunt has begun, and she will not stop until she has her prey. You must take the clan and flee, Keeper, before it’s too late.”  
Keeper Hawen looked at his dead clansmen, a terrible understanding dawning on him. The arrows shone with unearthly glow, and they were made from pure gold with lyrium arrowhead. They were nothing like Dalish arrows, or even those belonging to shemlen nobles.  
Another arrow flew across the river, but this time Lavellan was ready. She called upon her magic, and lifted a green barrier to cut the arrow’s way. It had been easier when she had the anchor to act as a catalyst, but her desperation gave her strength she hadn’t known she possessed.  
“We must do what she says, Keeper.” Loranil said, seeing the arrow hit Lavellan’s barrier. “Whoever the attacker is, he is trying to kill us. We can’t linger here.”  
“That is true.” Hawen admitted, his jaw tensing. “But what about you, Lavellan?”  
“I’m already dead.” Lavellan said grimly and turned her back to the clan, facing the forest where Andruil preyed on them. She pulled staff from her back, taking a fighting stance as she put herself between the clan and the god. Lavellan bared her teeth, and shouted in elvish, her voice defiant:  
“ _We are the Dalish: keepers of the lost lore, walkers of the lonely path. We are the last of the Elvhenan, and never again shall we submit.”_  
Woman’s laugh answered from the wood.  
“You will not have my People, false god.” Lavellan screamed with anger burning in her heart. “I will protect them from you and your brethren. You will not hunt them as long as I live.”  
A woman stepped out from the woods. She carried a golden bow over one shoulder, and wore an armor made from something which glowed suspiciously like red lyrium. There were little bells tied to her hair, and they chimed as she walked.  
“And will you stand as a sacrifice for you all?” she asked from Lavellan, ignoring the hunters who knelt down upon seeing her.  
“Yes.”, Lavellan did not hesitate.  
“Good.”, Andruil said with a smug smile. “The game is always more interesting with volunteers. I will give you one hundred heartbeats. Then I hunt you down, and after you die, I will kill the rest of sundered slaves you call your brethren.”  
She took the bow from her shoulder, and pulled the string tight, nocking an arrow.  
“Run, slave.” Andruil told her. “Run for your life.”  
Lavellan turned towards mountains in the east and ran.

 

\--  
Andruil killed her before Lavellan even reached the Shrine to Sylaise on upstream. A golden arrow pierced her robes, cutting cleanly through a lung. Lavellan had never thought a collapsed lung would be so painful death. It was slow and agonizing way to go, which reminded her too much about suffocating on the stake as fire licked her skin.  
But she did not give up. As she laid on the rocky bend, cold water washing away the blood blooming around her, Lavellan saw Andruil coming to her.  
“You didn’t last very long.”, the Huntress said, glancing at her uninterestedly. “Our game has ended.”  
Lavellan drew an agonized breath, and by the weight over her chest, she knew it was her last.

But the Well of Sorrows had not released Mythal’s hold on her. A mere moment later she stood over her dead body, watching Andruil starting to wade downstream. Lavellan made herself real again, remaking her body as June had taught her. The moment she drew her first breath and felt air filling her lungs again, Lavellan shouted at Andruil:  
“I’m not dead!”  
Andruil turned around, clearly surprised, and Lavellan ran to hide among trees.

 

Before nightfall, she had died twice more. But she was starting to learn Andruil’s tactics, and how to last longer. Lavellan led the Huntress far away from Vir Bellanaris, deeper into woods she had travelled with Inquisition. It took until morning before Andruil caught her again.

“You are an interesting prey.” the Huntress remarked as she made a shallow cut on Lavellan’s skin. “You are not afraid to die. Most people are, but you are not.”  
The knife was so sharp she barely felt a thing.  
“I can feel the magic of the others on you. Mythal’s, I think, even though it’s old and faded. Traces of Fen’Harel’s magic still linger here.” Andruil tasted the blood, licking her knife clean. “And June’s is most recent. He always liked to have beautiful things.”  
“Just kill me already.” Lavellan spat.  
Andruil looked at her, head slightly cocked on side.  
“I don’t think so.”, the false goddess said. “It’s time to run, little halla. I will give you one full day.”

She was still a prey, but it was different somehow. Lavellan could not have explained it even if she tried. She ran from Andruil all the same, fleeing until her muscles ached and her breath came in ragged sobs, and Andruil caught her all the same. But the Huntress just looked at her, searching for something Lavellan did not understand, and made the kill clean and quick.  
First time Andruil actually buried her dead corpse and grew a tree for her memory, Lavellan was oddly touched. It was the moment she understood that whatever thing she had going on with Goddess of Sacrifice, it was not good for her mental health. Promising herself she would not fall into Evanuris trap again, Lavellan decided to make better attempt at escaping next time.  
Sometimes Andruil cut her with the sharp knife, but it was never deep, and then sent her again on her way. Most often Lavellan woke up to arrow hitting the tree trunk mere inches from her face, or to tingling of silver bells from the tree above her. Andruil’s laugh echoed in her ears as she scrambled up and started running for her life. Days and nights followed each other, and Lavellan no longer had any idea of how long the hunt had been going on, or how it would ultimately end.

 

It all changed one morning when Lavellan was climbing up a hill in a forest filled beautiful oaks. She was swift and silent, but a bit distracted by the trees around her. So far, she had two rowans, three birch trees and a cedar planted for her memory. Maybe the Dalish were right about the dead needing an oak staff and cedar branch to rest peacefully. Lavellan had made a small detour to take a branch from the cedar Andruil had grown for her latest death, in case it worked. The oaks here would be good material to make a staff from, and she was getting tired. It had been a while since she had heard silver bells tingling.

Spying a hare a little distance away, Lavellan sneaked closer and caught the animal with a spell pulling it up into air, dangling there. She hurried to hare and finished it cleanly, cutting hare’s throat with swift slash from her dagger.  
“Vir Assan: the Way of the Arrow  
Be swift and silent;  
Strike true, do not waver  
And let not your prey suffer.  
That is my Way.” Lavellan whispered. Like all Dalish children, she had been taught the ways of the hunter first. She had begun her training as First only after her magic manifested on her ninth winter. The memory of learning the words felt mixed now, like everything relating to her People. She couldn’t help but miss the simple certainty of her days before ancient tales became real and left her with nothing to believe in.

She had just started skinning the animal, when she heard the sound of a branch breaking behind her. When Lavellan turned around, she saw a squad of templars. Leaving the hare, she started to run the direction she had come from.  
“It’s the demon personating Inquisitor! Seize it!” a man bellowed, and Lavellan knew with cold clarity that this was entirely different hunt. And when her tired feet took her down the hill, she saw more templars there, waiting.

\--

They could not banish her, because she was not a demon. But they could hurt her, and their knives weren’t nearly sharp enough. And Lavellan wished that Solas hadn’t robbed her of her faith to Creators, because if she only believed, she would have cried for Andruil to help. She was the devil Lavellan knew, and the rules of their game were well established by now. The templars were also something she knew, but there was no freedom in being their prey.

She tried to block off the pain and made no sound as she waited for the inevitable end. Either Well of Sorrows would make her rise once more in this place, or then it would take her back to Mythal’s sanctum in Deep Fade. Either way, it was out of her control now. Death was becoming so familiar to her by now. Lavellan thought that she could almost count the number of heartbeats left to her, and she wondered if she was right.

Thirty.  
“Should we burn the remains when we’re done?” her assailant asked from Knight Captain.  
Twenty-five.  
A golden arrow flying through the air and piercing the woman’s eye. Blood and grime spattered all over Lavellan, and she drew a pained breath, trying to turn her head to see.  
Twenty.  
Andruil, blood and force. She was no longer silent when she stormed into templar encampment. No. She was beautiful, and furious, the little bells chiming brightly. Lavellan smiled.  
Fifteen.  
The soft dark was coming over her now. It would be over soon, Lavellan knew it. Someone was lifting her up. She saw Andruil’s face up close, and smiled.  
Ten.  
Andruil shook her head, and there were tears of fury in her beautiful green eyes. Lavellan lifted her hand up weakly, and stroked Andruil’s cheek. Her hand left red stain on Huntress’ pale skin. She was so warm, while Lavellan was getting colder.  
Five.  
Andruil bent down to kiss her lips, and Lavellan thought that she could have loved her.

None.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next week: Lavellan decides to consult an expert on how to die so it actually sticks.


	6. Twins in shadow

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lavellan meets Falon'Din.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Aargh. The feels, the feels. My heart hurts. This is terrible chapter, and the second-last scene was worst. You should listen "I'm in here" by Sia for that. https://youtu.be/8ex7NFDXQoo
> 
> I have to warn you that the fic is developing actual plot without my permission. Wrath-like plot. With a sequel. And there is a problem with male lead because he was not supposed to happen, but he's too clever for his own good.
> 
> The song about Inquisitor is a poem "The Martyr" by Herman Melville (1865), with few words changed. I can't rhyme in English, so I have to borrow.

“Give me a glass of strongest spirit you have.” Lavellan said and pushed a coin to innkeeper of Spoiled Princess. The tavern by Lake Calenhad was the favourite haunt of off-duty templars from Circle of Magi. Not many travellers, but enough not to mark her as an oddity. To be sure, she had pulled the hood over her face.  
“Rough day, eh?” the man said.  
“You wouldn’t believe if I told you.” she said, looking forlornly at her hands. Her nails were black with soil underneath, and the skin was sore and bleeding. Digging herself out from her grave had been an experience Lavellan didn’t want to remember. She didn’t have the faintest idea how long she had been awake under the heavy soil, or how long it had taken to get out. Her mouth still tasted like mud.  
“Haven’t seen many of you knife-ears lately.” innkeeper said, placing a small glass of something foul in front of her. “Not since they burned the Inquisitor at Winter Palace.”  
“The Inquisitor? How long ago?” Lavellan asked.  
The man frowned.  
“Where have you been? Under a rock?”  
“Yep.” Lavellan said, and sipped from the glass. It burned on her tongue. Three or four shots like this, and she just might forget waking up in her grave. Luckily she had money; for some odd reason, Andruil had slipped gold coins inside her shroud. And deer’s heart inside her pocket. Finding it was one of the things Lavellan wanted to forget. Fuck the ancient elves and their odd burial customs. Even though the tree had been a nice gesture. Again.  
“It’s been six months.” the innkeeper said. “You know, you’re not the only one who asked the same question tonight.”  
Before Lavellan had time to voice the question, the human nodded towards the corner of the room, where an elf sat on a stool, tuning his lute. He was with an elven woman, and a dwarf, their little group separated from the rest of the patrons. The dwarf had drums, while the woman marked with Dirthamen’s vallaslin was unpacking a flute.  
“I hope they are as good as he says.” the man noted gruffly. “Templars. They aren’t easy to please, but they have coin, and those having a night off are coming in any minute. Do you require anything else?”  
A door was pushed open, and two templars came in. With them, a gust of cold wind came in. Lavellan sighed, and gave in. She really didn’t want to spend another night crouched under a tree, feeling wet and cold.  
“If you have room for a night, I can pay for one.”  
“Not many travellers stay here, but your coin is good for a knife-ear, so I can rent you the room upstairs. Second door on the right. Used to belong to a waitress called Felsi, before she ran off with Hero of Ferelden’s lot and got pregnant.” the innkeeper said unhappily.  
“I can guarantee that’s not going to happen to me.”, Lavellan said with morbid grimace and took another swig which burned in her throat. She had wanted children, once, but it was just one of the useless dreams she had entertained when she still thought her lover was nothing but an apostate mage with hatred for tea and ridiculous habit of not wearing boots.  
“Baring one’s toenails is a sign of humility.” Well of Sorrows informed her, sounding superior.  
“Shut up.”, Lavellan told it and ordered another.  
Innkeeper, well accustomed to addled customers who spoke to themselves, poured another glass of Dragon Piss as the bard clapped his hands, drawing attention for performance.

As Inquisitor, Lavellan had seen all kinds of music shows. She had accompanied Josephine to terrible screeching called Orlesian opera, and the famous Zither was often seen guest at Inquisitor’s table. Her clan had often passed time with song and dance. It was enjoyable way to spend an evening, and also a way to teach their oral traditions to young ones. But this time she found herself smiling unexpectedly.

The vocalist was odd with his coal-lined eyes and leather pants, and Lavellan could have sworn she saw glitter sparkling on his high cheekbones when light hit them. He sang well, but what she admired was the selfishness of his art. He sang without a worry whether the audience liked him or not, purple eyes half-closed as his voice reached the lowest notes only to rise high on next verse. He looked happy. And when he shimmied his hips, flashing a grin at the templars watching, Lavellan found the corners of her mouth tugging upwards. What a brat. She had listened enough of Zither’s ramblings to know that strange electric sound of lute could only be created by magic. He was a mage, making templars eat from his hand as he sang catchy tunes about dangerous, secret love. Lavellan couldn’t help but admire the sheer gall of it, and she liked the music. When she closed her eyes, and let herself float, she felt happy.

The audience appreciated the performance, and several rounds were ordered for the bard and his accompanists. Soon they grew flustered with drink, and after second set of songs, the bard had to beg for a break. The dwarf staggered a bit when he stood up and vanished from side door towards Spoiled Princess’ outhouse, and the elven woman said something in low voice before she followed him.  
“One more!” the female templar demanded. Her face was flustered with drink, and she was eyeing the bard with obvious admiration.  
“Yes! Sing something grand, not the fluffy stuff.” templar’s companion, a man with moustache yelled. He had not been as fond of the performance as her partner. “Something which makes man’s blood boil!”  
“Yeah!!"  
“A templar song! Sing us “The sword of mercy” or “Our flaming lady!”  
The bard wiped his mouth, and lifted up his palms:  
“All right, all right. If you insist, I will give you a templar song. A templar song to make your blood burn.”  
“Three silvers for “Our flaming lady.” a red-haired man insisted.  
The bard didn’t look impressed at offer. He tuned his lute a bit, and stood up.  
“This is a new song I heard at Exalted Plains. Quite memorable one.” he addressed the audience and began.

_First of Solis was the day_

_Of the prodigy and crime,_

_When they killed her in their fear,_

_When they killed her in her prime_

_Of clemency and calm—_

_When with yearning she was filled_

_To save the shems, she willed,_

_And, though Dalish, be kind;_

_But they killed her in her kindness,_

_In their madness and their blindness,_

_And they killed her from behind._

_There is sobbing of the strong,_

_And a pall upon the land;_

_But the People in their weeping_

_Bare the iron hand:_

_Beware the People weeping_

_When they bare the iron hand._

_She lieth in her ashes—_

_The Mother in her face;_

_They have killed her, the Forgiver—_

_The Avenger takes her place,_

_The Avenger wisely stern,_

_Who in righteousness shall do_

_What heavens call her to,_

_And the parricides remand;_

_For they killed her in her kindness,_

_In their madness and their blindness._

_And her blood is on their hand._

 

The bard’s eyes glinted as his strong voice echoed in suddenly silent tavern. With each verse, the atmosphere of happy revelry died down, and the faces of templars stopped smiling. The woman who had smiled and demanded more, was cold and stern now, and the man next to her was slipping his hand to his sword. Lavellan realized that she and the bard were the only elves in a small room filled with twenty-four angry templars. Oh, fenedhis lasa. The idiot.

She sought the bard’s eyes, desperate to make him stop before it was too late. And for a moment, their gazes locked. The bard looked serious as he began the last verse:  
“There is sobbing of the strong, and pall upon the land. But the People in their weeping—“  
“You will not threaten the Most Holy while I draw breath!” the templar with moustache shouted and stood up, baring his sword. His chair fell over, and the rest of his angry brethren stood up with him. Lavellan sighed inwardly, drew a breath, and stepped through the Fade.

The bard almost fell when she appeared between him and the templars. Lavellan pushed him behind her back, and turned to face the templars. She had a score to settle with them, and she’d be damned before letting them kill one of the People, even if he was a suicidal fool.  
Her barrier clashed with moustached man’s sword, but the holy smite by someone in the crowd was already upon them. Lavellan gritted her teeth, feeling the suffocating numbness settle on her bones, and kicked the first assailant in stomach. Iron Bull’s lessons in basic self-defence came handy. She brought the first drunk templar down, clawing wildly at her magic, and turned to yell at the bard over her shoulder:  
“Climb out through window and run, you idiot.”  
He had clearly never been smitten before, because he wore the familiar look of shock on his face.  
“Run!” Lavellan roared the command in her best Inquisitor voice.  
She didn’t turn to look back when she heard the window opening.  


\--

At least this time nobody had buried her, Lavellan thought grumpily as she floated through the rain in the middle of the night. She would have almost welcomed the too-familiar sight of Mythal’s secret sanctum and Abelas frowning at her, but no. She had to materialize next to Spoiled Princess’ outhouse, narrowly missed by templars who were running all over the place trying to figure out what had happened. There were at least three boats coming over Lake Calenhad, judging by the lanterns in the dark. Lavellan was not going to wait to see if they had anyone smart enough to do a spirit binding, so she picked the best direction – away from templars and their tavern – and floated that way. Not having a body meant she didn’t get wet in the rain. Small mercies.

“They decapitated her. I saw the head on pike.” Lavellan saw a glimpse of a nervous dwarf behind a tree. He was the drummer from the tavern.  
“I think we should go back to Falon’Din.” woman’s voice said. “This is not safe.”  
Lavellan stopped for a moment to consider the situation. After what had happened with Andruil, she felt weary. Lavellan wasn’t sure if she could stomach another heartbreak, caused by unwilling servitude to Mythal. She couldn’t find the words to describe what it had been with Andruil, but the tree Huntress had planted at her grave explained the whole thing better than Lavellan ever could.

She had woken up under a giant oak tree, the trunk shaped like an image of a woman. Her features were proud and defiant as she brandished her staff at unknown enemy. For someone who had known her, it was easy enough to recognize the planes of Lavellan’s face, even though the living tree lacked fine details a chiselled statue would have had. Among the roots, there was a veilfire rune. After Lavellan had dug herself out and gathered the energy to ignite it, she had seen something which shook her heart. The rune invoked a brief image of a bloody hand rising to cup a woman’s cheek, and a feeling of immeasurable loss. It was not so much a loss of something known, but the sad feeling of paths closed, ways never taken before it was too late. “Beloved of Andruil. One hundred heartbeats.” the inscription read.

She didn’t see the Evanuris as Solas or Mythal did, but she didn’t deny their cruelty, either. Being killed repeatedly by one’s prospective girlfriend was not the usual progression of blooming romance, not even though she had gotten a sweet statue. Andruil’s people skills needed work, or maybe she was just mad. Lavellan couldn’t tell if she was any better herself, these days. And that was why she had decided to die.

Solas had once told her that Falon’Din had filled oceans with blood of those who would not bow to him. He had claimed that Falon’Din’s stubbornness had been second only to his self-regard. But Lavellan harboured a hope that if anyone could kill her so that she stayed dead, it would be the infamous God of Death. And she had thought long and hard in her cold grave what to offer Falon’Din in return. The bard’s song in Spoiled Princess had only confirmed what Lavellan suspected already: either Solas or Briala had made her a martyr for the elves. It was something she could and would use for her advantage, to save what she could before her People got crushed between shemlen armies or Fen’Harel fighting Evanuris. She had to pick a side and hope for the best. All her options were bad. Therefore she only knew what she would not choose. After they had burned her at stake, Lavellan would not weep for Halamshiral.

Yes. Her mind made up, Lavellan collected her magic and rebuilt her body anew. She flinched with disgust as she became corporal and the freezing raindrops fell on her. Being a spirit was better in many ways, but she wasn’t interested to find out whether the bard and his companions shared the Dalish idea of spirits.

Purposefully making noise as she walked, Lavellan approached the sorry group huddling under a tree.  
“So. You work for Falon’Din.” she said, not bothering with introductions. She looked at the bard instead. “After what just happened, you owe me a favour. I have proposition I wish to make to Falon’Din, and you can tell me where to find him. Then we will be even.”  
The bard looked at her. His eyeliner was getting smudged by the rain.  
“Why you want to meet Falon’Din?” he asked.  
“Because I’ve had enough, and I want to die.” Lavellan replied. Looking at the terrified dwarf, she added ironically: “As you can see, I have trouble getting the death stick. At this point, I feel I need expert advice.”  
The bard looked unfazed, while the woman marked with Dirthamen’s vallaslin was definitely uneasy.  
“I see.” he acknowledged with a nod. “It is reasonable request, and to be honest, I don’t want to stay here a moment longer. It’s damp and the tavern is full of idiots with no taste for music.”  
“That is true.” Lavellan admitted. “They didn’t even cheer for ‘I’m the One’, although the switch to head voice on low notes was particularly well done, but cheered for ‘Maker’ even though you were too drunk to get the words right. Or you were slurring them on purpose.”  
A spark of pleased expression passed in bard’s eyes.  
“I was wondering if anyone listened at all.” he mused.  
“I used to have a friend who admired Orlesian opera.” Lavellan shrugged.

 

She didn’t know how or when they had sent word to their master, but when Lavellan finally fell asleep between the Dalish woman, Sulehn, and the dwarf called Suran, she dreamed of a temple built from black stones and the yellowed bones of the dead. It was strange, monochromatic place, and she stood at the heart of it. Everything in roofless central chamber was black or white, or shades between. Only spot of colour was the large lake of blood under the starless sky. Even in a dream, she could smell the scent of iron.  
“You are arrogant quickling to request an audience with a god.” a voice addressed her in elvish.  
Lavellan did not turn around.  
“I know what you are, Evanuris.” she said. “And it doesn’t matter what you think of me. I no longer wear your markings.”  
She looked at the lake of blood and continued:  
“I came to request a favour. In return, I will give you Halamshiral. It was the capital of Dales, and place where I died. Once you take power there, the elves will flock to you, and you will have your lake of blood from the shemlen rulers who failed me.”  
The presence behind her was silent. The stories of Falon’Din spoke of strange duality all Evanuris seemed to embody to some extent. He would kill those who wouldn’t bow, and Lavellan had seen it with her own eyes after she came to him. But at the same time, he was Friend to Dead, who soothed tired souls and led them to their rest.  
“I don’t think you are as petty as Solas about having worshippers who are real. “, Lavellan added as an afterthought. “The Dalish legends painted you as someone who cared more about quantity than quality. We bleed all the same, die more often, and might bow just like the rest.”  
“You are not wrong in your assumptions, quickling. I know you, too. You are Fen’Harel’s mortal who drank from the Well of Sorrows.”, the warmth of his breath brushed against her ear, and Lavellan startled by sudden contact. A satisfied chuckle made her feel irked, and she stubbornly refused to turn around.  
“Not his, or anyone’s. I’m my own person.” she said sharply.  
“And your favour?” he asked.  
“When it is over, you will kill me. In such way that I will stay dead.” Lavellan replied.  
“I can already tell it will be a pleasure to work with you.” Falon’Din said. He placed his hands on her shoulders, and whispered into her ear:  
“Wake up.”

 

\--

 

A part of Lavellan couldn’t help but admire Falon’Din’s craftiness. He wasn’t wise like Solas, or drawn to puzzles like June, but he knew the secrets of elven heart, and how to hold sway over masses. She was not a project for him to improve, or his prey, but a tool in his political game. Lavellan was the ever-present figure standing by his side, dressed in distinct black armor where Dalish symbols intermarried with those belonging to late Inquisition. The mortal elves, hunted by their own gods and the human forces alike, flocked to Falon’Din in hopes of safety.

It was said among the elves that Falon’Din had brought the Inquisitor back from the dead. And it was clear that the god’s favour rested upon his chosen. When the army of Falon’Din’s followers marched to Jader, they all saw God of Death paint his mark upon Lavellan’s brow with enemy blood before sending her to front lines. Lavellan fought fiercely for the People. Even a sword through her back or a spell of death could not stop her. She fell, but Friend of the Dead must have shielded her, the soldiers whispered each other. Because Lavellan stood up, her mortal wounds vanishing, and continued to fight. She was immortal, truly immortal, and who would stand in Falon’Din’s way when he could bestow such gifts? How could they fear death, when Falon’Din was on their side?

\--

 

The city of Jader burned, and Lavellan felt numb. She wondered if this was how Solas had felt. Each death set her a bit further apart from others, and it was getting harder to relate to those who fought alongside her. Lavellan no longer felt she had much common with other elves. She had her memories of happier times, of course, but she was envious of the faith shining from the marked faces of the Dalish when they saw Falon’Din walking among them. Even those who had lost loved ones, felt reassured, because they honestly believed Falon’Din would guide them to Beyond.  
“Smile, Lavellan.” Falon’Din said, taking her arm. “You have won me a victory here today.”  
She wondered if she had made the right choice with pledging her help to Falon’Din. Had it been her choice, or Well of Sorrows guiding her steps? Had she submitted her People to slavery in disguise of worship? Mythal had been so quiet lately, and for once, Lavellan would have relished having a direct order. But Lavellan could not leave the elves to mercy of humans, or let them become Andruil’s prey.  
“Smile.”, Falon’Din said again.  
“I don’t know if I did the right thing.” Lavellan admitted.  
He gestured towards the cheering elves.  
“You are just shell shocked. Look at them. Today, their spirits are lit with hope and faith.”  
Maybe Falon’Din was right. Or maybe he was just playing on Lavellan’s fears, giving her answers she wanted. She didn’t know.  
“In few short weeks, your time will end, and you will never know what happens afterwards.” Falon’Din continued lightly. “Why to spend your last days worrying about things beyond your reach? Generally it is better to end things with happy note. And since you are terrible at being happy, I’m lending you a hand like a benevolent patron should.”  
“What do you mean?” Lavellan asked, frowning.  
“What happens after a successful conquest? A party, naturally.” Falon’Din raised his eyebrows.

 

Lavellan had to admit she had not felt like herself after the whole stupid thing with stake and Well of Sorrows. Her only attempt to let her hair down and have a drink at Spoiled Princess had ended badly, and after that, she had been very busy building an army. Maybe he was right, and she should relax a bit. Being happier couldn’t kill her, after all.

So Lavellan bathed, put on a dress, and even let her attendant add a pinch of glitter to her face. Falon’Din’s inner circle seemed to be obsessed with glitter for some unknown reason. Lavellan emptied her first glass of wine as she sat in a copper bath tub, watching her reflection, and decided that glitter was all right. It was pretty, sparkly and shiny, and there _could_ be more of it.

When Falon’Din saw her making her way through the celebrating crowd, he waved at her from a divan.

“You look so much better.” he announced. “And even a bit of sparkle. No. Turn around. A lot of sparkle, I see.”  
There was amusement in his voice, but Lavellan didn’t mind. She had forgotten to eat again – eating made dying so much messier – and the wine had gone straight to her head.  
“There isn’t such thing as too much glitter.” she announced, admiring her hair from the mirror. She was lovely. She could tell.

Falon’Din gestured to servant to bring more wine, and he asked:  
“What are you thinking, Lavellan?”  
“There is one bonus from former engagement to God of Craft. I never need to think whether my ass looks good in a dress. I know it does. June couldn’t craft an ugly, saggy ass even if his life depended on it.”, Lavellan said absently, enthralled by her glittery reflection.  
The elves around her turned strangely silent. And only when Falon’Din started to laugh Lavellan understood what she had just blurted out. She put her hands on her mouth, and felt a blush creeping up her face.  
“Oh, this is going to be splendid night! You never told me that you knew June. How well, exactly? Engagement? Divinely perfect ass?” Falon’Din’s eyes glittered with evil glee, and he made room on his divan for Lavellan.  
“It’s the glitter. Isn’t it?” she asked, a bit mortified as she laid down.  
“Smart girl. It’s one of Dirthamen’s little tricks, and there is nothing you can do about it now.” Falon’Din said. “Take some more wine and tell me about good old June.”  
Lavellan accepted the glass from servant. Oddly, she found herself actually wanting to tell Falon’Din things. She had been silent for too long, and talking was good. Talking was great.  
“Sex with June is like being a harp.” she announced with confidence brought by experience. “A harp tuned for perfect pitch. It’s so perfect that it’s almost boring. Solas likes it a bit rough, but he’s really tiresome to get into bed. First it’s ‘oh, I can’t, vhenan’, then it’s ‘Dread Wolf take you, vhenan’, and then it’s ‘we shouldn’t have done it, vhenan. It will never happen again.’ Until next time. Ugh. The feels.”  
“I have a feeling this is going to be a great party.” Falon’Din raised his glass and clinked it against hers.

 

The rising sun was shining faintly through the painted glass windows of Jader Chantry, when Lavellan staggered along the corridors in search of kitchen. She had no idea where her clothes were, but Lavellan had pulled a conveniently placed curtain down from the window and fashioned a makeshift robe, tied with a curtain rope ending in a golden tassel. She had lost her dress at some point when Falon’Din had dared to voice a suspicion that her ass wasn’t as divine as she claimed. Lavellan was not a woman who accepted defeat, so she had pulled off her dress and shown him.  
The glitter was dangerous stuff. She had hazy memories about having sex with Falon’Din. And even more disturbing memories about going down on Falon’Din while there were two other women in the bed with him. Or them, to be exact. Lavellan felt slightly faint. She had no previous experience with those kind of parties, but she did remember moaning in a sea of glitter and too many pairs of bare limbs wrapped around her. Mythal’enaste.

She was just breathing deep the scent of good, black tea when someone else stumbled in the kitchen. It was the bard from Lake Calenhad, looking worse to wear.  
“Too much glitter?” Lavellan asked compassionately. “I don’t know what kind of twisted mind invented that stuff.”  
He blinked, looking confused.  
“You are wearing a curtain.” he said slowly.  
“Ten points for attentiveness.” Lavellan congratulated him. “If you can tell me where I got this, or where my clothes are, I can fix you a cup of tea.”  
“I do remember seeing you getting naked in the great ballroom, so your clothes are probably there.” he said, slumping on a chair opposite hers. “I was playing at the moment so I missed the details, but there was some kind of argument going on. About June and asses.”  
Lavellan cringed inwardly. She reached for a mug and stood up in her magnificent curtain to draw a fire glyph on the kettle.  
“Sugar? Honey? Milk?” she asked.  
“None. I prefer things plain.” the bard replied. He was holding his head with both hands. Apparently he wasn’t immune to headache.  
They sat in companionable silence for a moment, sipping their tea and nursing hangover. A raven landed behind the window and started pecking at window glass, making a sharp noise which made them both flinch. It seemed to amplify the stabbing pain on Lavellan’s temples, and judging the way how bard’s ears flattened against his skull, he didn’t like the sound either.  
“Stop it. Go away.” the bard said strictly, glaring daggers at the bird. The raven croaked unhappily and took flight.  
“Birds.”, he shook his head disgustedly and took a sip of tea. Drawing a deep, relaxed breath, he added:  
“You make excellent tea.”  
“Thank you.” Lavellan said, feeling flattered. Most people she met nowadays spent too much time dreaming to appreciate good tea. “It’s simple enough recipe. The secret is in how long to boil it.”  
He looked at her, purple eyes shrewd and appraising.  
“Are you checking if there’s enough glitter left to lure the secret out?” Lavellan asked suspiciously.  
“Yes.” he admitted frankly, hiding his mouth behind the mug. He had laugh lines around his eyes when he smiled. “It’s something of a habit of mine.”  
“There is none.” she told him. “I took a bath before I came down here.”  
“It’s a pity.” he said with a dramatic sigh. “I agreed with you, you know.”  
“About what?”  
“About your ass.” he said, and now he was positively laughing at her. His eyes twinkled. “It’s definitely a divine creation. Although I liked the rest of you, too.”  
Lavellan felt blood rush on her face, and she groaned.  
“You will never let me hear the end of it, will you?”  
“It can be our secret.” the bard promised. He poured them more tea, and when he passed a mug to Lavellan, his hand brushed against hers. Lavellan took it as a sign that she had indeed ingested too much wine and glitter dust last night, because she felt a nervous tingle, like butterflies in her stomach. He didn’t say anything either, just pulled away, and they drank the rest of the tea in silence.

 

Maybe Falon’Din had been right about her needing to relax, because Lavellan felt better even after the hangover and effects of glitter wore off. She found it easier to enjoy little things, like sleeping in real bed, not having to run, and feeling sunshine on her face as she sat in the garden and wrote down everything she remembered about Halamshiral. Falon’Din had told her that he had some answers about death problem for her, but death felt faraway thing when Lavellan lifted up her face to enjoy the warmth.  
“Sorrow was worried about you.” Cole said, materializing next to him. “He wanted to know if you were all right.”  
“Tell Abelas I’m fine.” Lavellan said.  
“He wanted to know if you are coming back soon.”  
“I don’t want to go back at all.” she said to Cole.  
“I know.” the spirit boy replied. “You are happier now. It’s good. I’ll tell him.”  
Lavellan smiled and waved at Cole as he disappeared from sight.

“I didn’t know you had a spirit friend.” Falon’Din said as he came closer, flanked by the bard on his side. The bard wore black velvet robe instead of his usual clothes, and he had arranged his hair in single braid, imitating Falon’Din. They looked startlingly alike.  
“Oh, it’s Cole. He has been with me since Inquisition. And when I died, he helped me.”, Lavellan replied.  
“Next city I conquer, I will send you a whole box of glitter and make a list of things to ask from you.” Falon’Din noted.  
“You’ll just end up distracted. Like last time. You are hopeless at interrogating people.” the bard sniffed.  
“While you are just jealous, brother.” Falon’Din dismissed him. “Why, Lavellan, you look like you had bitten a lemon.”  
“It’s nothing.” Lavellan lied. Of course. It made an awful lot of sense for Dirthamen to skulk around Thedas gathering information and pretending to be a bard, and the bird thing had been a dead tell if she only had presence of mind to think something instead of headache, but... She felt terribly disappointed for a reason she couldn’t explain.  
“Whatever.”, Falon’Din shrugged. He wasn’t one to dig about feelings. “Dirthamen promised to look into death thing for me. Do you have the list for me? I’m holding a meeting with my generals about my next move. We’re dispatching some people to Halamshiral today.”  
Lavellan handed him the list.  
“Should I attend?” she asked hopefully. Dirthamen was still looking at her, and she didn’t really want to talk with him. It was too much like Solas. Even though she had never asked his name.  
“Come after you’ve finished.” Falon’Din ordered and left her alone with his brother.

“I’d like to get this over with as soon as possible.” Lavellan said as she heard him sitting down on the bench next to her. “Do you have some special Evanuris trick to enact interrogation or will a written account suffice?”  
“You are angry at me.”, he stated, looking at her.  
“No. Angry at myself. But it doesn’t matter. Thing is, like I already told you, I can’t die. And it’s likely that I can’t tell you why.” Lavellan told. Her lips attempted to move, but she fell quiet in the middle of motion. “Yes. I can’t tell you.”  
“Stop being so flippy.” Dirthamen snapped. “It’s annoying.”  
“It’s annoying to see an Evanuris every time I turn my head.” Lavellan replied heatedly. “I’m so, so tired of your lot. Why can’t I ever meet anyone normal? Do you think it’s nice to be a ---“  
Well of Sorrows cut her in the middle of a sentence when she was just going to call herself a god bait.  
“Let me see.” Dirthamen said. He didn’t wait for an answer, but placed his palms on her temples. Lavellan felt her mind twist, and suddenly she saw herself once again gasping for breath when Well of Sorrows bound her to will of Mythal. She heard Solas’ calling for her, his voice frantic with worry. Flames licked her skin, and she fell limply on Dorian’s arms. Abelas, the ancient elves.  
“She hides things from me.”, Dirthamen muttered, applying more pressure, and something snapped again.  
June holding her, and his sad face behind the wall of crystal when explosion bloomed like a fiery flower. Andruil, and the taste of blood on her lips when they kissed. Death. So much death.  
Lavellan blinked, and when her gaze focused again, she found herself staring at Dirthamen’s purple eyes. There was understanding dawning in them, and he opened his mouth to say something, but Lavellan pushed him away and stood up.  
“I’m going to see Falon’Din.” she announced. “There is a city to conquer. You can inform him about the results.”

 

They conquered the next city on way to Halamshiral with practiced ease. Falon’Din was not a man who would waste perfectly good dead enemies, and their army had been bolstered by dead defenders of Jader. Lavellan only died once during the attack, and it was completely uncalled thing. A rock flung from a trebuchet falling on her. Stupid, really. The elves fighting alongside her cheered all the same when she crawled out. Falon’Din was pleased, because it bolstered his reputation, and he decided to hold another party.

She was sitting quietly in a corner and humming along the music the bards played when Dirthamen stepped from the shadows. It had been at least three weeks since she had seen him last, in Jader.  
“I heard you died again.” he said, taking the seat next to her.  
“It’s hardly news.” Lavellan snorted.  
“It ruins my theory.” he remarked. “I thought that having some variation of sex with your target would satisfy Mythal’s spell, and you would fail to rise next time you die, returning to Mythal.”  
“That theory makes you and the rest of your colleagues sound like black widow spiders. Have sex with Evanuris, and you’ll die.” Lavellan said, dropping her voice to lower register to make it spooky.  
Dirthamen looked somewhat disturbed at the comparison.  
“What?” Lavellan asked. “Your lovers are not prone to compare you to a deadly spider in throes of passion?”  
“Not exactly.” he said, taking a sip of wine. “Would you?”  
“You just told me that your theory proved false, and I wouldn’t even die.” Lavellan pointed out. “I would get nothing out of it.”  
“Clearly you have no respect for your betters.” Dirthamen said, his voice dry. “You just managed to insult me in several ways in a single sentence. If you weren’t Falon’Din’s, I would be forced to take action.”  
Lavellan saw the laugh lines on the corners of his eyes were visible again, and she relaxed.  
“I think you like it.”, she said.  
“Why would I do such a thing?” Dirthamen sniffed.  
“You do.”, Lavellan claimed, suddenly certain that she was right. “You secretly like to be treated like a normal person.”  
“More heresy. And blatant heresy, at that.” Dirthamen said, shaking his head. “I don’t know why I even bother with you. Shemlen.”  
“You protest too much.”  
They sat in silence, watching the revelling elves.  
“It would not be wise to tell Falon’Din about Mythal’s task.” Dirthamen said after a moment. “He doesn’t take kindly to traitors. Even unwilling ones.”  
Lavellan didn’t know what to answer.  
“What about you?” she asked after a moment.  
“I do what I always do. I wait and watch what happens.” Dirthamen replied evenly. “One does not solve a puzzle by destroying the parts, even though there are those who feel it is the best answer.”  
He took a sip of wine and continued:  
“And I think I could trust you to keep the necessary distance from my brother. It could be that I was right with my theory, but the spell simply hasn’t taken a hold yet.”  
Lavellan nodded, unable to find words. She recognized a threat when she heard one.  


After that party, Dirthamen was always present when Lavellan met Falon’Din. Falon’Din seemed comfortable with his company, and Lavellan decided it was true when the legends called them reflections or mirrors of each other. They were ridiculously united most of the time, only exception being the arguments Lavellan had with Dirthamen. Over everything. Falon’Din was much amused by their constant bickering, and refused to take sides.  
  
“I think you will miss her when she’s dead.” Falon’Din noted one evening when they had just had a spectacular argument about whether Dirthamen’s people should be sent to infiltrate the Winter Palace. Lavellan was strongly against it, on the basis that ancient elves just froze from surprise when a templar smote them. With news of elven uprising and Evanuris, there would certainly be templars present.  
“What?” Dirthamen looked up from the map, glaring at his brother.  
“I said that you’ll miss her when she’s dead.” Falon’Din repeated. “It’s two days to Halamshiral.”  
“What that does have to do with anything?” Dirthamen asked. “We were talking about attack plans before you changed the subject.”  
“The agreement was that I’ll kill her when we have reached Halamshiral, and I’m going to keep my word. Thanks to you, I have everything planned.” Falon’Din said smugly. “It’ll be nice.”  
“Nice?” Lavellan asked, feeling morbid fascination.  
“Two words.” Falon’Din told her. Dirthamen tried to listen in, but Falon’Din leaned closer to whisper in her ear. “Blood sacrifice.”  
Lavellan shivered uncomfortably, and Falon’Din looked pleased. For once, Dirthamen did not mirror him.

Blood sacrifice was unsettling idea. But Lavellan didn’t know anything about blood magic or necromancy, while Falon’Din knew plenty. Maybe it was only way to unravel Mythal’s hold on her spirit, and if it worked, it would be worth it. Still, she couldn’t help but feel a bit frightened when she left Falon’Din’s command tent.  
It couldn’t be much worse than her previous deaths. She would take a nice blade through ribs any day if alternative was burning. Fire was worst, and she still felt uneasy around it.

So. The attack on Halamshiral would happen tomorrow, and she had two days left to live. The thought was strange, and oddly sad. These months she had spent with Falon’Din had been far easier than June, or Andruil. Lavellan thought it was because she lacked the sharp connection of hurt. Maybe there was a limit on heartbreaks, or Mythal had been wrong about the general attractiveness of her spirit. The sex – or what she remembered of it – had been great fun, and she liked Falon’Din more than she had expected, but emotional connection simply wasn’t there. It was relief, just like death would be. But for some reason, she couldn’t fall asleep when she went to her tent and laid down.

 

Lavellan had stared at the tent canvas for hours, or at least it felt so. The sounds of the camp around her had been silent for a long time. Even the sound of guards making rounds was lost, because there weren’t any. Falon’Din had a wonderful trick to hide his troops between the Fade and waking world. He wouldn’t share the little details, but they would descend on unsuspecting humans without a warning, and could travel short distances even without eluvian.  
The shadows painted everything in her tent grey, and Lavellan sat up, unable to sleep. It was useless. And she would get all the rest she needed soon enough. She ignited a veilfire torch, and decided to make her a cup of tea to calm her nerves. Falon’Din had a habit of stalking peoples’ dreams, and she didn’t want him to see her frightened like a rabbit when she finally fell asleep.

She drew the fire rune on the kettle and took the bag of tea leaves from the box on makeshift table, placing it next to her mug. After a moment’s consideration, Lavellan reached for the box again, and took another mug. She couldn’t tell if he was hiding somewhere, but Dirthamen liked tea.  
“Do you want some?” she asked tentatively, feeling like fool. She was like a da’len, offering drinks for imaginary friends.  
The shadows near door moved, and Dirthamen stepped through them. He conjured a chair for himself and sat down opposite her.  
Lavellan didn’t say anything, because her throat felt strange and thick and her eyes were a bit too warm. Like she was going to cry. Even though this was a happy event. Really. She was going to die for good.  
The glyph faded, and Lavellan poured the steaming tea into cups. First to her, and then to him. She pushed his cup towards Dirthamen, careful not to touch.  
“Do you want to know the tea secret?” she finally said, wanting to offer something to break the silence.  
“No.”, he said, staring at his mug.  
“But you like tea.” Lavellan said helplessly. “I was going to bequeath you the kettle and leaves and everything when I’m gone. And it won’t come out right, if you boil the leaves too long.”  
Dirthamen looked at Lavellan, his eyes sad and ancient, and her words stumbled over one another, dying down.  
“...You always wait too long with everything.”, Lavellan’s voice faded.  
“I do.”, he said.  
Dirthamen put his mug aside and reached across the table for her hands, taking them in his. He pressed his forehead against Lavellan’s in a gesture of silent grief, and Lavellan’s quiet tears fell in steaming tea, ruining the taste forever.

 

\--

The encounter with Dirthamen had not helped at all for her to sleep. He had stayed for a moment before leaving abruptly, without explanation, and now Lavellan felt even worse. She was still swallowing tears and staring at the ceiling when she felt Fade stirring around her and suddenly a hand grabbed her by neck.  
“You snake!” Falon’Din’s eyes burned with fury. “You devious snake! How dare you?”  
Lavellan wasn’t understanding anything. She struggled in his grip.  
“I haven’t done anything!” she exclaimed, not understanding.  
“I haven’t done anything!” Falon’Din mimicked. He wound her hair around his wrist and yanked forcefully, making Lavellan’s eyes water as he started to drag her behind him.  
“You know very well what you have done!” he hissed.  
Lavellan was just about to confess everything about Mythal, when Falon’Din continued:  
“’You always wait too long with everything.’ Yuck. It was the soppiest sad thing I’ve seen for eons. Just disgusting. I don’t care what you have done with Fen’Harel, June or Andruil, but you are not breaking my brother’s heart with your dirty shemlen tricks. He is mine. Not yours.”  
He lifted Lavellan up, and slammed her down on a large, flat rock. A hastily constructed altar, it seemed.  
“Unlike you, I keep my word.” Falon’Din said. “If only to get rid of you. And don’t try to lure my brother with sappy last words. Dirthamen isn’t here. He stormed out hours ago, and I don’t know where. It’s your fault. He has never left me like this.”  
Lavellan was staring at him with wide, shocked eyes. Her mouth opened and closed wordlessly, until the meaning of Falon’Din’s words and the reason for his wrath settled in her foggy mind.  
“Oh, no.”, she said in small voice. “Not him.”  
“Precisely. Not him.” Falon’Din said cogently, and cut her open from neck to groin with spirit blade.

When her blood started to run along hastily constructed grooves, Lavellan was still reeling from Falon’Din’s reveal. Not him. Please, Mythal, not him. The shock was far worse than the pain, and she didn’t even try to escape when he cut her further. She just laid limp, staring at starless sky above her, and prayed this would work. She didn’t want, she couldn’t go on like this. Not when she knew.  
“Kill me.”, Lavellan whispered.  
Falon’Din’s beautiful mouth turned into a snarl, and he plunged the blade deep. Lavellan’s beaten heart stirred once around the blade which impaled it, and then her head fell on the side, unseeing.

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next week: Abelas forces Lavellan to go to Sylaise's barbeque party.


	7. Solas

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lavellan is offered her freedom, but all she wants is the answer to her question. And a braid undone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Elven endearment 'gaidhalas' is from FenxShiral's Project Elvhen.

It was late evening in Mythal’s forgotten sanctum. Lavellan had lit the veilfire torches around altar, and there were wisps dancing around flames. She knelt before altar, and Abelas could see the cracks on the floor through her transparent floor.  
“Please, Mythal.” she whispered quietly. “At least tell me why. This all would be easier to bear if you only told me why. Is it a ploy? A petty revenge? Whatever it is, it’s not worth this. Making me do this does nothing for the People.”

Ever since Lavellan had returned to Mythal’s sanctum, she had been asking these questions but received no answers from goddess. Her emotions ranged from rage to frustration, then sorrow, and now her voice spoke only about numb exhaustion. Abelas felt pity for the poor spirit, and prick on his conscience for allowing a mortal to partake Vir’Abelasan.  
“You must trust there is a reason why she doesn’t answer to you.” Abelas offered. “It could the Evanuris. You can’t be made to tell something you don’t know.”  
Lavellan shook her head hopelessly.  
“I’m starting to think we were fools to want our gods back. When I was with Dalish, at least we were free. Now I’m worse than a slave. A slave who can’t die.” she said bitterly.  
“It would be best if you didn’t think about it very much.” Abelas said, sitting down on the steps near the altar. “Those who question find it more difficult to serve. We can’t know her plan. We can only believe.”  
Trying to find words to comfort this shadow of elf, Abelas continued hesitantly:  
“It is not that Mythal was ever infallible. If she were, she would not have died. But she tried. And I believe she still tries for the People. Mine and yours, even when the others do not.”  
Lavellan looked up, her expression agonized.  
“Did I do right thing when I let the elves believe Falon’Din is a god? When he turned them against shemlen?”  
“I don’t know if you did the right thing, but you did what was necessary.” Abelas said. “Your mission was to get close to him. And you succeeded, because Vir’Abelasan let you die. Falon’Din wouldn’t care about thrill of a hunt, or dream about having a family like June. You did what you had to enact Mythal’s will. One cannot serve a higher purpose without making sacrifices.”  
“I fear you are right.” Lavellan said, hugging her knees. “But how do I know her purpose is a right purpose? They aren’t gods.”  
“What makes a god?” Abelas asked. “Or how following a god would be any different than following Mythal? It is good to question, da’len, but it is shrewd to remember that your questions might gain you only a little. You are still bound to Mythal, as we are. Our lives or our deaths aren’t our own.”  
Lavellan brushed hair off her face and let out a small, tired sigh.  
“As long as music plays, we dance.” she quoted. “Who is next, Abelas?”  
“My people report that Sylaise is arranging a summer party for pantheon. The rumour is that Evanuris will attempt to come into agreement about what to do about current state of the People.” Abelas said.  
“What kind of party?” Lavellan asked warily. “Is there going to be glitter?”  
“No. It’s a barbeque.”

\--

Lavellan knelt by a stream and traced the markings of Hearthkeeper on her face with steady hand. It was harder on her own face, but she would do the outline first, and follow with details later. The part going over eyelid was best to leave last, because tears would make the ink run.

“I still feel uncomfortable about this party.” she confessed to Cole.  
“You think she will serve you for her guests.” Cole nodded. “Flames smelling like campfire but wrong. Sylaise, Hearthkeeper. Hearth burning, coals bright, fear flaring.”  
“Yes.” Lavellan admitted. “I just keep thinking that someone who had a song gloating such a smug excellence, can’t be very nice person. Maybe she has all qualities of good housekeeper, but wrong, like in a horror story.”  
“He thinks you are not so far from truth.” Cole said helpfully.  
“Who?” Lavellan frowned.  
“Guide’s shadow.” Cole pointed at bullfinch sitting on a branch above them. “One more map. Charting the moves of heavens, looking for the path through stars to find her. Go away, brother. You have done enough. Tea, tasting bitter. You always wait too long.”  
“That is quite enough.”, Dirthamen said firmly as the bullfinch changed into an elf, and Lavellan felt the corners of her mouth turn up even though she didn’t meant to.

 

“What are you doing here?” Lavellan asked, wanting to distract herself from needle pricking at her skin.  
“I thought I could take a side job as a tattoo artist.” Dirthamen replied, working on the whorls of Sylaise’s vallaslin. They were kneeling opposite one another, while Cole sat on a rock nearby, watching them.  
“I’m not entirely certain if I should let you help.” Lavellan sniffed. “Who knows what kind of markings I’ll end up with.”  
“It is a risk.” he nodded. “But to answer your question, I’m here to observe. I thought that if I saw how Mythal’s spell works, it would be easier to solve the puzzle. Close your eyes.”  
Lavellan did as she was told. By lost Dales, she hated this part. What kind of person wanted to tattoo her eyelid? Falon’Din’s markings, even though more extensive, hurt less.  
“I think it works on some combination of sex and emotional connection. But Falon’Din defied my theory. He certainly isn’t fond of you.”  
“No.”, Lavellan disagreed. “But he loves you. Jealousy is one aspect of love.”  
“It could be that.” Dirthamen agreed, dabbing her tears dry with his sleeve before they ruined the tattoo. “So it’s sexual act and some aspect of love. I think this part is done. You can open your eyes now.”  
“I never had sex with Andruil. She kissed me, and then I died.” Lavellan said, opening her eyes to see annoyed expression on Dirthamen’s face.  
“Fenedhis, he thinks. Not even kissing—“  
“Compassion.”, Dirthamen said sharply. “Not one word more.”  
“I want to help.” Cole said, looking hurt.  
“It would be extremely inconvenient if Roshan dies simply because you keep blurting my secrets.” Dirthamen put the needle and ink away, glaring at Cole. “If you sneak into my mind again, I will tattoo you a vallaslin, a working one, and then you _will_ hold your silence. We don’t have that many chances left to figure this out. I would prefer to solve the dilemma before she dies permanently.”  
“You found out my name?” Lavellan was surprised. Nobody had called her by her given name after she came to Conclave years ago.  
He smiled at her.  
“I would be embarrassed to let People call me Keeper of Secrets if I hadn’t.”  
“It is good to know Evanuris hold to some standards. I was dreadfully disappointed with Falon’Din’s command over death.” Lavellan said seriously.  
“You lie.” Cole said disapprovingly. “She’s happy to be here with you.”  
“Cole!” Lavellan exclaimed.  
"I think we need to establish some ground rules about speaking.” Dirthamen sighed and offered her a hand to pull her up. "This is worse than hares shouting at treetops."

Their plan was to walk through the woods in Wycome, follow the river, and make it to Angsburg where Dirthamen said the entrance to Sylaise's mansion laid. He claimed that Sylaise would most likely collect any stray elves from the area, because she needed slaves to do the dirty work for the party.  
"No leader would put her surviving followers to wash greasy dishes, when the woods and cities are filled with people who only need to be collected, and one doesn't even need to fight for the resource.", Dirthamen remarked. "It's so easy that it's almost wrong."  
"Your origins are showing.” Lavellan said dryly. "You can't compare Free Marches to a slave market."  
"How many times you cooked or cleaned when you were Inquisitor?” he inquired calmly.  
Lavellan sighed, knowing he had gotten her there. They had recruits for that in each camp.  
"All right.” she said. "You win. But… “  
“Yes?”  
“If we are going to pretend to be slaves, how familiar you are with general kitchen work?”  
“I had slaves, of course, and I know well enough what they are supposed to do. What do you mean? Even the smallest children can clean dishes with magic.” Dirthamen was genuinely perplexed.  
“Oh, no.”, Lavellan groaned.

“I’m beginning to understand the pattern.” Dirthamen said as he stared grimly at the pot he was scrubbing. “If you have to collect the wood, light fire, wait it to burn to get ashes, heat water and make the food before washing the dishes with ash, all without magic… Its whole life spent like this. In fruitless toil with no room for anything else, and then you die.”  
“You should give this world a bit more time before you make up your mind.” Lavellan said, more forcefully than she meant to, but hearing his words stung. “You can’t judge us all on based on what your world was like. We don’t have what your people had. But it doesn’t make us worthless.”  
She looked down, feeling sore. She didn’t want to sing this song again.  
“What would you have me do, then?” he asked, and for first time, Lavellan saw reservation in Dirthamen’s eyes. He looked guarded, distant, as much as a man could when he was elbows deep in dirty water.  
“I don’t know how to say it right.” Lavellan leaned against trunk of a tree, twisting a piece of grass in her fingers. “But you shouldn’t see me as some exception to rule. I don’t want to hear compliments about shining spirit or indomitable focus. Solas protected himself from really seeing this world by saying those things. As long as I was special, and exception, he could justify his plan to tear down the Veil and restore his people. Even though it means that my people and everybody else will perish.”  
“I think.” she continued, looking Dirthamen straight in the eye, “that you should look for the whole pattern. Not just the boring part with drudgery. There is more to it, if you are willing to see it.”  
“I’ll think of this.” Dirthamen replied after a moment’s silence.” But I won’t promise anything.”  
“That is all she wanted. No hasty decisions, not like Solas.” Cole effectively ended the discussion.

Even though Dirthamen picked up the art of manual labour reasonably fast, it didn’t mean he liked it. When they arrived to next village, he announced that he wanted to sleep in bed instead of cold ground for a change, and went to barter with the local mayor. The place was too small to have a real tavern, but there was a common room adjoined to local brewer’s house, where drinks were sold. Lavellan’s vallaslin drew more suspicious glances than Dirthamen, and it was easy for him to make a trade. In exchange for night’s entertainment, they had a warm place to sleep and enough to eat.

One village followed another, and they settled in comfortable routine. The news of Fen’Harel’s threat had not reached this part of Thedas, or if it had, the secret might have stayed in locked drawer inside Duke’s castle. Lavellan saw some elves in villages, and there didn’t seem to be same kind of unrest which had provided Falon’Din with his army. Maybe the flames of her stake had not reached Free Marches yet, and she childishly hoped they wouldn’t. The ordinary people were in peace, busy rebuilding their lives after the sky had been healed and demons were gone. Even Cole slipped away, saying that he was needed elsewhere, and Lavellan let him go.

After three weeks on the road, Dirthamen and Lavellan reached a small town called Sheeran. It was slightly larger than the villages they had visited so far. Sheeran had an actual tavern doubling for an inn for visitors and a busy market stocked by riverboats sailing down from Angsburg.  
“This looks promising.” Dirthamen said, looking at the town. “We might actually get a room instead of sleeping on a bench after the tavern closes.”

He was right. A local horse fair was going to start in two days, which meant many travellers coming from further area had already arrived and were eager to spend some coin in tavern. There weren’t any templars in the audience, but the tavern was stuffed full.  
“Are we going to sleep in broom closet this time?” Lavellan asked with a smile when she slipped through the admiring crowd to bring a mug of water to Dirthamen. He had been singing for better part of an hour, now, and he took the drink eagerly. The people around him were already demanding more.  
He smiled, and the faint traces of glitter on his cheekbones sparkled in the light.  
“Why, gaidhalas. Your standards for courtship are terribly low. It should be a spacious broom closet, at least.”  
He had called her sweetie. Lavellan's face grew heated, and she ignored the cackles and whistles of few elves around them.  
“Did you dig too deep in the glitter box?” she asked.  
“I might have.” Dirthamen allowed. Taking a small box from his pocket, he snapped it open and scooped up a tiny amount. He spread it over her cheekbones, fingers curving lovingly over her skin.  
“Here you go.” he said, sounding pleased.  
The sparkly dust didn’t send her into drunken stupor like last time. It merely changed everything. The colors were deeper, shadows softer. The lights were golden and rich, but what really drew Lavellan’s attention was the magic swirling around God of Secrets. It was like a brush of a wisp in Fade, or…  
“Dandelion fluff.” Lavellan breathed, her eyes wide with wonder. “You feel like dandelion fluff. What does this do?”  
Dirthamen chuckled.  
“Used in moderation, it counteracts the dampening effect of the Veil on one’s senses.” he told her, and plucked the strings of his lute to begin next song.

Hours later Lavellan stood up, stretching her back and shoulders. She had sat watching the ever-present shadows moving around Dirthamen, creating tricks of light which looked like dandelion fluff. It was like a shielding spell, but constantly moving. The magic cloaking him dampened the sound of his voice, robbing it from the richness and dark timbre which would have made his listeners feel shivers along their spine. But she heard, and was oddly touched by seeing a glimpse of what laid behind his carefully crafted barrier.

The audience was still whining for more, but Lavellan was not having any of it. She wanted nothing more than steal the bard from his audience, pull him into broom closet and see one of his faint smiles, true ones. She itched to sink her fingers into black braid he always kept so neatly done. She wanted to open it, and see his hair fall free on the pillows of a bed. Preferably her bed, death be damned.

“Come.”, she said, placing her hand over his and silencing the strings of the lute. “I’ll get a key for our broom closet.”  
The music stopped abruptly, and Lavellan slipped her fingers between Dirthamen’s, weaving them together.  
“Come.”, she said again, and she could have crooned her victory when she saw pupils of his eyes dilating. Yes. They were pretty, black circled by purple. That braid of his _needed_ to go.  
“I...” Dirthamen cleared his throat. “I need to settle the wages with innkeeper first.”

 

Judging by the distance between outer wall and next door on the left, the room they had been promised was little more than an actual broom closet. But it had a sturdy lock, and sometimes it was all one needed, Lavellan mused as she turned the key and stepped in. Well, not all. A man was required, too.

But Mythal had answered to her unspoken wish already. There was a man standing by the tiny window, hands crossed behind his back. When Lavellan saw a golden armor and the pelt thrown over his shoulders, the key dropped from her limp fingers, and she stumbled backwards. Her back hit the wall, and she felt like she couldn’t breathe.

 _But you lied to me. I loved you. Do you really think I wouldn’t have understood?_  
_I will save the elven people. Even if it means this world must die._  
_Sometimes terrible choices are all that remain._  
_We aren’t even people to you?_  
_I’m not a monster. If they must die, I would rather they die in comfort._  
_I will never forget you._

Her fingers clawed against the wooden wall. Suddenly she felt all too real, and it hurt. Her new body felt wrong, and she was suddenly ashamed to be seen like this. Not like this. Please. Not now. But there were no gods to pray to, and Solas was already turning around slowly.  
“Inquisitor.”, he said.  
“Not anymore.” Lavellan said. Her voice sounded fragile even in her own ears. “I presume you know what happened to me. I-”  
Before she had time to finish her sentence, Solas’ eyes flashed blue light, and unseen power seized her. Lavellan’s whole body tensed like a string as magic began ripping June’s design without mercy. She fell on the floor, landing painfully on her knees. The sensation was eerily familiar; it was exactly like the moment when he had disintegrated her arm to take back the Anchor.

“I don’t know which one of them made this distortion, but I swear, I will not have her memory mocked like this.” Solas hissed, and rage twisted his features in a scowl. He looked like the day he had killed the Kirkwall mages at Exalted Plains.  
“I have a question, Solas.” Lavellan ignored the pain, pushing herself up. She could see the outline of her hand changing. The grains of wooden floor were visible through her skin, which was turning transparent. June’s magic was giving in, and this was the one question she had to get an answer for.  
“Question?” Solas’ eyes widened. “Is it you, vhenan? How did you—“  
“Mythal and Well of Sorrows.”, Lavellan said. As she stood up, the floor against her feet no longer felt solid. But it wasn’t the floor. It was her feet. Fuck. She focused on Solas and asked in hard voice:  
“Did you or did you not let Vivienne kill me on purpose?”  
Solas looked like someone had struck him. He froze where he stood.  
“Answer me!” Lavellan’s voice rose to scream. “Did you or did you not let me die because it would make it easier for you to destroy my world when nobody was real anymore? Did you plan the whole thing to make me a martyr for the elves, or were you truly so clueless that you didn’t expect the humans to turn against me the moment you left me behind?”

Solas still didn’t speak, and his silence hurt worse than any answer he might have given. Lavellan was crying now, and the tears which were supposed to fall on her cheeks were falling through her, hitting the floor.  
“You left me behind.” she said, choking on her tears. Her nose was running, and the perfect façade June had built was torn away, leaving behind a crippled ghost. “You took my hand, and left me there, even though I begged you to take me with you. I screamed for you when they burned me. For you and my mother and my brother and I was so afraid, but nobody came.”  
Solas shook his head slowly, and she could see unshed tears glistening in his eyes, too.  
“Ir abelas, vhenan...”  
“No!”, Lavellan snapped. “You have no right to vhenan me. I’m dead! I _died_ , and I will not forgive you before you answer my question. Tel’abelas, Solas! Tel’abelas!”  
“Did you have anything to do with the sudden release of Evanuris?”, Solas asked, taking a step closer.  
“Yes.”, Lavellan said, lifting her chin up defiantly.  
“Was it you who marched with Falon’Din to Jader?”  
“Yes.”, Lavellan replied. She wiped her cheekbones, and her fingers became stained with tears and traces of glitter she had almost forgotten.  
Solas looked at her, his expression grim with sorrow.  
“Will you answer my question now, Solas?”, she asked, almost trembling.  
“Yes.”, Solas said. He lifted up his hands, turning the palms upwards. The movement was so slow that Lavellan scarcely noticed it. She was torn and hurt and all her attention was waiting for his answer.  
Then Lavellan felt the strange sensation. It was like wind. Only when she looked down, she saw the bits and pieces of her incorporeal form, her spirit, being blown away on the winds of time.  
“Ar lasa masa revas, vhenan.”, Solas whispered, his eyes holding all the sadness in the world.  
Lavellan was too stricken to answer. She stared at her dissolving soul. She couldn’t believe it. It was like what he had done to Wisdom. It was the exact thing Solas had done to Wisdom. I will give you freedom.  
“I don’t think so, Fen’Harel.” Dirthamen’s voice suddenly cut through her shock. He stepped between her and Solas, wearing the most dramatically appropriate black cape Lavellan had ever seen. With fluid, practiced movement and expert timing,  he turned around quickly, pulling Lavellan against his chest. The black fabric flared around Lavellan and Dirthamen, and when it descended again, they were no longer in the inn, but somewhere else.

There was a thin layer of snow on the ground, and she heard the sound of sea near. Lavellan looked at the dark sky above them. Her mind was still distraught. Everything hurt, but one thing more than anything else.  
“He didn’t answer my question.” she sobbed. “He tried to kill me, or free me, and he didn’t even answer my question.”  
“It’s not true, Roshan.” Dirthamen said gently. “You asked: ‘Will you answer my question now, Solas? And then he said ‘yes’.”

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The theme song for Solas and Lavellan is "On the sidelines" by Lovex. It's so Solas. https://youtu.be/QfkWGYCsalo
> 
>  
> 
> I had my chance  
> You gave it away  
> I didn't say enough  
> I did too much  
> And everytime I look back in time I find myself questioning why
> 
> I'm deep in despair  
> Deep down in my mind  
> I relive the time  
> When all could have been more than I've seen, when all could have been mine, all mine
> 
> Just if I  
> If I could sleep by your side  
> I would run through the night  
> Hold you so right  
> Hold the most beautiful sight
> 
> Standing on the sidelines  
> Careless and afraid  
> Don't dare to think  
> What possessed my way  
> And everytime I look back in time I find myself questioning why
> 
> Just yesterday  
> I thought I knew  
> All the words to say  
> When all could have been more than I've seen, when all could have been mine, all mine


	8. Ghilan'nain

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lavellan attempts to recover from her meeting with Solas. After initial difficulties, she finds a small measure of peace. Until Falon'Din informs his brother that he is no longer making up excuses for Dirthamen missing Elgar'nan's family dinners.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is your official Saturday update. Last night was extra.
> 
> This chapter has few nasty references to mutilation. To Trespasser's "Taken Shape"-armor, to be exact. 
> 
> Ghilan'nain's notes in blockquotes are a slightly modified version from Trespasser codex entry "Notes on Methods of Enchantment." http://dragonage.wikia.com/wiki/Codex_entry:_Notes_on_Methods_of_Enchantment
> 
> Ghilan'nain's theme and Lavellan's death in this chapter were based on this music video by David Guetta "Turn me on". It looks like Ghilly at work. https://youtu.be/YVw7eJ0vGfM
> 
> I found this Dirthamen picture by Alteya and liked it very much, so I based his official outfit on that. http://alteya.deviantart.com/art/Dirthamen-562446216

“The vessel is broken.”  
“The moment of reckoning comes soon. We all will serve.”  
“You must wait.”  
The slithering whispers of the Well of Sorrows made Lavellan feel cold. She wrapped the blankets tighter around herself, hugging her knees as she watched Dirthamen trace the movements of stars on the parchment in front of him. Lavellan had no idea of what he was doing, but she decided she liked his hands.

The round chamber they were in had no ceiling, and the space was dominated by a large table in the middle of the room. Dirthamen was standing by it, glancing upwards to stars and then drawing a new line on his map. The walls of the chamber were full of pigeonholes, filled with countless maps like the one Dirthamen was currently working on.

She was not sure where to place this personal sanctum on a map. They were somewhere south, Lavellan thought, because the weather was cold. There had been a thin layer of snow on the ground when they had arrived on islet in the middle of ocean. From outside, the rock had looked utterly deserted, but Dirthamen had spent some time poking around large rocks until a doorway suddenly appeared. Lavellan suspected this haunt was like other buildings belonging to ancients; built on intermarriage between waking world and Fade, simultaneously existing on both and neither.

Finishing the last line, Dirthamen put the quill down and looked at his work critically. He didn’t seem to be pleased, because he shook his head.  
“How are you feeling?” he asked from Lavellan.  
“Cold.”, she tried to summon a small smile, but couldn’t.  
“And Vir’Abelasan?”  
A faint gleam of blue runes glowed on her skin for a second, and Lavellan’s answer died on her lips. Dirthamen looked at her, not saying anything, and put the map away.  
“Tea?” he offered.  
“Yes, please.” Lavellan said and stood up. She was sure she looked like a rag doll belonging overenthusiastic little girl, wrapped in four blankets. Not exactly what she had in mind for this evening, but at least she was alive, Lavellan decided as she tiptoed after Dirthamen towards the kitchen.

“You kept the kettle. And leaves.” Lavellan noted with surprise as he reached for cupboard. “Except... What happened to this?”  
She pointed at the kettle, which had a large dent on the side.  
“I threw it at Falon’Din’s head.” Dirthamen said nonchalantly.  
“Why?” Lavellan blinked.  
He crossed his arms over his chest, and his expression turned irritated.  
“What else I was supposed to do? I had run out of death spells by then. And like it wasn’t enough for him to ‘help’ me by killing you, his stupid, thick skull had to ruin the kettle, too.”  
Lavellan felt laughter bubbling in her throat. She tried to hold it back, but the mental image of God of Secrets hurling a tea kettle at his brother and then throwing a tantrum because Falon'Din dented it, was irresistible.  
“It wasn’t fun!” Dirthamen exclaimed, sulking. “I had just returned to ask his help with my plan, and what do I find? Falon'Din was elbows deep inside your abdominal cavity! Not what I wanted to see, and then he had the nerve to tell he did it for me! For me! The gall of him!"  
"But it was true.” Lavellan remarked.  
"Oh? And now you are taking his side?” Dirthamen glared at her.  
"No, but I _asked_ him to kill me. And he did it only to protect you.” she said patiently.  
"You.” the God of Secrets pointed an accusing finger at Lavellan, "have unhealthy disregard for your life, and your judgement is not to be trusted in this."  
"It's the Well."  
"It isn't the Well, not solely. The Well can kill you, or force you to seek death, but it can't make you wish for it. And I know you want to die.” Dirthamen yelled. "You haven't even asked about my plan to thwart Mythal's hold over you, because you don't care about living. You are just waiting everything to end. Do you have any idea how it makes me feel?"  
Lavellan tried to say something, but he didn't give her a chance.  
"I don't understand why I'm even bothering with all this when you are so set on dying! There are moments when you aren't, and they are wonderful, but then something crappy happens and it's all about dying again! You would have let Fen'Harel kill you, just like you let Falon'Din kill you! I can't - no, I _won't_ have any kind of relationship with a corpse! I have standards, even though Ghilan'nain doesn't!"  
The reference to Ghilan'nain's missing standards was baffling compared to how Dalish saw the Mother of Halla, but Lavellan pushed it aside.  
"It's not like I have choice! Or options! My clan is dead. I have no idea what has happened to Inquisition, and I'm not sure if I wanted to go back even if I could. Abelas tells me that it would be better if I didn't question Mythal's will, and-- ", Lavellan stood up, feeling her temper flare.”Do you think I find my existence fun? Or something to live for? There is a limit on how much a person can handle, and I want to die, because then I won't have to live through another terrible heartbreak. Tell me, if you know so much, what _do I have left?_ "  
"You could have everything.” Dirthamen said cogently. "Yet you choose to shut your eyes, and have nothing."  
He turned around and stormed out, his black velvet robes swirling.  
"You are doing that on purpose!” Lavellan shouted after him. "I hadn't finished yet! Why you always have to have dramatic exit!"  
Dirthamen paid her no mind. He was already gone - naturally, because stomping back would have ruined the effect - and Lavellan slumped down by the table. Creators. Elgar'nan's famous temper, or at least some part of it, seemed to be hereditary. If Mythal had a family like this, no wonder she had ended up in early grave. What little Lavellan knew of Mythal, she seemed like someone who would yell back?

She didn't know how long she just sat there, thinking of what he had said and what she had said, and what she wanted. But then she looked up, and saw the dented kettle on table. Slowly and carefully, she pulled the kettle closer and started drawing water rune on the metal. It was not much, but it was a beginning.

 

Lavellan found Dirthamen from the observatory, where he was once again working on his maps.  
“Here.”, she said, placing a tea tray on the table as a peace offering. Taking a step closer, Lavellan slipped her arms around Dirthamen’s chest, hugging him from behind.  
“I’m sorry.” Lavellan said quietly. Taking a moment to collect her thoughts, she continued: “I’m not ready. I don’t know if I can have any kind of life, the way I’m now, and Vir’Abelasan has made a mess of me. I’m worried about you. I don’t want to be a weapon used to break you. I can’t make any promises except that I’ve decided to try.”  
She felt his rigid posture softening a bit under her touch.  
“I’m sorry too.” he muttered. “I was upset. I didn’t expect to see Fen’Harel again, and you just stood there, dissolving.”  
“His spies must have been following us since we started touring through villages. Solas seemed to think I was some kind of cruel joke, an apparition created to spite him.” Lavellan replied. A thought came to her, and she snorted. “It seems that every time you leave me for a moment, one of your brethren is trying to kill me. No wonder you are skittish.”  
“I’m not skittish.” Dirthamen said with dignity. From her vantage point, Lavellan could spy the corners of his mouth twitching.  
“You are.” she said with a spark of glee. “You throw kettles at people. Yell at them. And the dramatic exits. You are such a drama queen, Dirthamen.”  
“I’m not going to answer such preposterous accusations.” he sniffed, pretending to be insulted.  
“I can see through your act.” Lavellan informed him. She pressed her cheek against soft fabric of his robes, feeling the warmth beneath, and closed her eyes.  
“Is this the part where we kiss and make up?” she asked hopefully.  
“There is a problem concerning that.” Dirthamen sighed and took the mug of tea from tray. “Come and take a look, gaidhalas.

“These lines.” he pointed at the map. “I think a pattern is emerging. I've traced the movements of stars at each moment when Vir'Abelasan triggered by some kind of intimate act, and also the moment of your death which followed. All of them are pointing to same direction, but I can’t see the conclusive event yet. If I could work the sequence out, I could tell what Mythal is using it for, counteract it, and with enough time unravel the spell binding you to Well.”  
“But…” Lavellan encouraged him.  
“But we need more data.” Dirthamen said unhappily.  
"I could trigger the spell with you.” Lavellan offered hopefully.  
"That is unfortunately out of question.” Dirthamen replied. "Without Vir'Abelasan, you are not immortal. If the spell concludes completely before I've found a way to fix it, you will die permanently. And I don't trust Ghilan'nain, Sylaise or father not to kiss and kill you just to spite me. Since I'm only one whose actions I can truly control to ensure your survival, we can’t take any chances."  
"So you say I'm stuck with completely chaste relationship with you, whom I actually like, while I have to bang your father?” Lavellan asked in dangerous voice.  
"Regretfully, yes."  
“That is simply not going to happen.” Lavellan stated firmly. “You overlooked one crucial detail. Vir’Abelasan triggers my death only after an Evanuris initiates a sexual contact. They are the true targets of the spell. Mythal meant me to lure them, and if I died as soon as I touched one, it wouldn’t serve her purpose. It means I can do anything to you, but you can’t repay it.”  
“That is a possibility.” he said carefully.  
“The question is”, Lavellan said, almost purring, “How good your self-control is?”  
Dirthamen swallowed.  
“Normally I would say it’s one of my stronger virtues, but in this particular case, I’m not willing to bet your life on it.”, he replied.  
“Dirthamen.”  
“Yes?”  
“Your moral standing is impressive, but I don’t like it.”  
“If it’s any consolation, I hate myself right now, too.”

“Couldn’t we at least hold hands?” Lavellan asked when the dawn was breaking and they left the observatory to get some sleep.  
“Maybe wearing gloves. I’m not sure. Any kind of contact where my bare skin touches yours is not advised. Especially since I think we have already crossed over to unsafe territory with words.” Dirthamen replied as they walked down the stairs.  
“Void, this is depressing.” Lavellan shook her head. “If you tell me I have to sleep alone, I’ll riot.”  
“I wouldn’t dream of it.”, Dirthamen reassured her. He stopped at nondescript door and pushed it open to reveal a bedroom. “It’s likely you would be killed by something.”  
“Maybe a freak accident.” Lavellan suggested. “Like the time with trebuchet and a flying boulder.”  
“Yes.” Dirthamen sighed, giving her a sideways look. “But you shouldn’t sound so pleased about it.”  
“There is a bright side to everything, if one only looks for it.”, Lavellan replied cheerfully as she sat on his bed and pulled covers aside.

 

“I have a question.”  
“What kind of question?”  
“A philosophical question. Do you agree that a glorious life can be considered acceptable trade for untimely death?”  
“In this case, most emphatically no.”  
“You sound like my Keeper. The same disapproving tone.”  
“Does it work?”  
“No. It never worked on me when she tried it, either. I still have an irresistible urge for—“  
“ _No_ , Roshan.”  
“I want to do the hair thing at least.”  
“After I’ve found a way to keep you alive, you can do whatever you want with my hair.”  
“Do you promise?”  
“I promise.”  
Satisfied with his answer, Lavellan closed her eyes. That night, she dreamed of future, and her dreams were sweet.

\--

 

“What is it?” God of Secrets asked eagerly as he spied Lavellan lifting a covered bowl from cold box. “You have been hiding it from me for three days.”  
“It’s not hiding. It’s been marinating, you greedy Evanuris.” Lavellan said with a smile as she dodged Dirthamen and cast a fire spell over the stovetop in kitchen.  
“You have a dimple on your right cheek.” Dirthamen noted.  
“Flattery doesn’t get you anywhere in my kitchen.” Lavellan told him as she put a pan on heat. “Activate the fire rune on oven, please.”  
“I like this form better. Dimples are lovely on you.” Dirthamen said, peeking over her shoulder to get good look on fish fillets. They were covered with thick paste, and Lavellan was wiping the excess off before placing them on the pan.  
“Sweet-talker.”, Lavellan shook her head in fake indignation as she cut a squash in two and started to dig out the seeds. She had not bothered to keep up with June’s perfect form, preferring to put her magic to use to grow an expedited vegetable garden on the roof after she found out there was no food in the house except some honeyed wine. It had been four weeks ago.  
“I know that one.” Dirthamen said, leaning closer. “It’s the simmered squash we had last week, isn’t it? It was one of my favorites. “  
“You have claimed to like everything I’ve cooked so far.”, Lavellan remarked amusedly.  
“Yes, but this was special. I like sweet and salty things. Like simmered squash. And you.” Dirthamen suggested slyly, slipping his gloved hands around Lavellan’s waist while she was focused on turning the fillets.  
“You made me blush again, you fiend.” Lavellan complained. “If you keep distracting me, I might accidentally ruin the fish. It’s my clan’s special recipe and very particular about timing.”  
“I’d probably eat it anyway.”  
“That’s true.” Lavellan said, turning critical eye at him. “You are much improved since we came here. Not so skeletal and pale.”  
“Are you fattening me up?”  
“Nobody has ever gotten fat on a diet of fish and vegetables.” Lavellan stated. “It’s good for you. Your color is much healthier now. Less like a starved corpse.”  
Dirthamen was about to answer, when a loud chime echoed through the room. Muttering something unsavory under his breath, Dirthamen dug a crystal from his pocket.  
“Yes?” he asked sharply.  
“Yes? Is that how you greet your brother?” Falon’Din’s voice replied. “You missed the family dinner again. I had to make excuses for father. He’s getting suspicious. You know what he’s like about family dinners.”  
“I’m still not speaking to you.”  
“Yes, yes. But listen. I told father that you are still searching for the foci, but it was weeks ago, and today he asked why you haven’t found anything yet. He knows you’re usually faster than this.”  
“I have been busy.” Dirthamen said, glancing at Lavellan who was bending to transfer the fish fillets from pan to oven.  
“Busy doing what, brother?” Falon’Din asked. “Exploring her Deep Roads? Establishing your canon? Filling her with your divine blessings—“  
“Shut up.”, Dirthamen commanded. Unthinkingly, he turned to look for the tea kettle, and Lavellan put hands on her mouth not to laugh.  
“I know you. I can tell you tracked down Lavellan.” Falon’Din said in sing-song voice. “There is no hiding from me. But if you miss the fifth family dinner in row, I’m no longer lying for you.”  
“When is the blasted thing?”  
“Next Saturday morning at father’s place. See you there, brother. I’m waiting to hear all the juicy details.”

 

“Are you certain?” Lavellan asked wistfully as they stood in the bedroom, facing a mirror.  
“They don’t want to see me. It’s the Keeper of Secrets they require.” Dirthamen said.  
“All right.” she said, holding a knife in her glowed hand. “How long it should be?”  
“A little below chin.”  
She drew the blade through his black hair, cutting it short. It felt stupidly like a loss to see the braid she fancied so falling on the floor. It signified his transformation from man to someone her People worshipped as a god, and Lavellan didn’t want to see it.

She sat quietly on their bed, waiting for Dirthamen to finish. Normally Lavellan would have tried to sneak a look, because she was certain that her penchant for feeding Dirthamen was making him fill a bit like a proper man should, and Falon’Din had not been something to sneer at even though the God of Death was on skinny side. They were twins, and Lavellan suspected they had a similar body type.

She had met the bard first, and Dirthamen being one of the Evanuris from legends of their people had become a side note to Lavellan. Even more so after the weeks in his secret house. The quiet safety had soothed her broken spirit, and one morning, she had woken up to understand she was actually waiting for the day begin. She had plans, now, even if they didn’t reach longer than a span of three days required to marinate the black cod in miso paste, or next harvest of her magically grown tomatoes, or a day spent fishing. After deaths and heartbreaks and leading an organization attempting to save the world, it had been a blessing. Now her world was changing again, and Lavellan was feeling uneasy even though the logical side of her knew there was no reason to it.

“I will come back within a week.” Dirthamen said, interrupting her worried thoughts. He wore unfamiliar clothes in brown, yellow and purple. It looked like a leather armor for a mage, she thought. The colors clashed with each other, making him stand out with cold confidence. The leather twined around his arms from elbow to wrist ended in strange, sharp-tipped nails on each finger but left most of his hands bare. An ornate belt rested on his waist, and the lines of his outfit were sharp and defined instead of flowing and swirling things she knew he had a weakness for. It was nothing like him.  
“Be careful.” Lavellan said.  
“I would take you with me, but you are safer here.” Dirthamen replied, reaching for her but then thinking better of it. The sharp things he wore instead of soft, thin gloves would have hurt her.  
“I will strengthen the wards as I leave. You can go out, and magic will let you back in, but nobody else may enter. This place has never been discovered by my brethren, but don’t venture too far. There are things which lurk between Fade and waking world.”

 

The first night without him was uneasy. It took a long time to fall asleep, and when Lavellan finally slipped into Fade and dreamed, her dreams were strange and unsettled, filled with whispers which were too silent for her to hear. She dreamed that she left her bed and walked up the stairs to upper floor. She donned her clothes with quick movements and walked through the unseen gate to outside where the sea was starting to freeze solid. And then she turned into a dragon. That was when she knew for certain that it was a dream, because Lavellan didn’t know how to shapeshift. Her Keeper had trained her in traditional path of nature, and she had picked up the magic of rifts with Inquisition. But she ascended with heavy wings beating the air, and the tiny islet with entrance to Dirthamen’s secret hideout became smaller before vanishing entirely.

She flew and flew until her wings ached, but an unseen force still pulled her forwards. It was cold, and she was tired. The beat of her wings became slower, and in the end she merely glided over the forest beneath her. Her eyes were closing from exhaustion, and she blinked a bit longer each time. Then she suddenly felt a piercing pain in her chest, and she cried out in dragon’s voice, a shrill cry of an animal. Looking down, she saw a familiar golden arrow sticking out between the scales around her dragon heart, and she fell.

\--

She woke up to voices from the Well.

“Prepare yourself. They are coming.” they whispered frantically.  
Lavellan looked around, and her heart skipped a beat. She had expected to wake up entangled in sheets of Dirthamen’s bed, not inside a dungeon. It was always bad when she woke up in a dungeon.  
“What did you do?” her temper flared. “Mythal, you bastard!”  
“You can’t forsake your duty to Great Protector.”, the voices said, disapproval practically dripping from their chorus. “You are weapon to strike against those who betrayed her. Remember that. We serve.”  
“Only weapon needed here is to cut your throats!” Lavellan screamed. “You bastards! You fucking bastards! You lured me from bed while I slept, changed me into a dragon and then got me shot! By Andruil!”  
She hit her hand against the stone wall, grimacing as her knuckles started to bleed, but she was too mad to care. Pulling her shoulder back, she hit the wall again, screaming in rage.  
“I told you, she is feisty one.” Andruil’s familiar voice remarked behind the bars. “So full of fire.”  
“It looks like you are right.” a different voice remarked with almost a clinical precision. “When you brought me a corpse, and claimed that she shapeshifted even though she was already dead, I was certain you were fooling me. Life signs seem to be strong, and lung capacity has not suffered.”  
Lavellan turned to look, and she swallowed when she saw Andruil and an unfamiliar woman standing next to her. The stranger had halla horns implanted through the skin on her forehead. Real horns. Not vallaslin.  
“I told you, Ghilan’nain.” Andruil said and squeezed woman’s hand with obvious affection. “I wouldn’t disappoint you with a promise of a gift and then fail. This is my favorite prey, and we can share. I’m certain you will have so much fun with her.”  
“I look forward to finally having a test subject who can provide me extensive details of internal effects on different procedures.” Ghilan’nain said, her thin lips looking pleased. “There is so much yet to be discovered about these lesser elvhen, and what they are usable for. I fear the last batch you brought me are all spent up already.”  
“Sleep. You can’t handle this.” Mythal’s commanding voice filled Lavellan’s terrified ears, and it was an order she could not fight. Her mind blinked out, and the Well of Sorrows took over.

\--

“You have been very quiet, Dirthamen.” Elgar’nan said, studying his younger son. “Your brother told me that you have been searching for our foci, but it seems that you have nothing to tell.”  
“I haven’t been successful yet.” Dirthamen said, frowning at the food at his plate. Elgar’nan saw the faint look of disappointment passing on his face when Dirthamen tasted a piece of squash.  
“Is there something wrong with your food?” Elgar’nan inquired.  
“It’s a bit sweeter than I’m used to. Not enough soy sauce.” Dirthamen admitted.  
Elgar’nan exchanged looks with Senris, the leader of his sentinels who stood near the table.  
“I was under impression that you and Falon’Din mostly exist on honeyed wine.” he said shrewdly, looking from one son to another. “But it’s apparent that you have come to your senses at last. Tell me, what’s her name?”  
“What?” Dirthamen said, his eyes perfectly round and innocent.  
“I asked what is her name.” Elgar’nan said patiently. Fenedhis, did his sons think he was dumb like a stick in a mud? “You have a lover somewhere. It’s obvious. You skip my invitations, make your brother lie for you, and when you finally deign to appear to my doorstep, I can see someone has been feeding you. That is generally what happens when you settle down with a woman. Same thing happened to me when I met your mother.”  
“I don’t have a lover.” Dirthamen said defiantly, raising his chin up. Elgar’nan glared at him, looking for a sign of a lie. He hated people trying to lie to him. But there were none, his judgement and magic told him.  
“That’s odd.” Falon’Din remarked. He was watching his brother gleefully. “She’s not bad in bed.”

Elgar’nan crossed his fingers under his chin, studying his sons. He found the look on Dirthamen’s face amusing; it was carefully neutral mask, but Elgar’nan wouldn’t be slightest bit surprised if the twins tried to kill each other with next twenty heartbeats. Sometimes you just had to leave the children to work out their own differences. And assign sentinels at their doors to listen at the juicy details they yelled at each other during a fight. Neither of his sons had ever brought a lover to be introduced to him, and Elgar’nan found the situation rather curious. Sylaise had always been a pretty one with a thing for Dirthamen, but why it would happen now, in a world ruined by Fen’Harel? Maybe it was the very reason, Elgar’nan mused inwardly. Disasters sometimes brought people together.

But there were other things, important things, which had to be dealt with first. Elgar’nan gestured to Senris, who offered him a bundle of notes. Five pages, to be exact. First the index and then individual schematics.  
“Since you don’t have a lover waiting for you, you surely have time to look through these for me.”, Elgar’nan pushed the pages towards Dirthamen. “I got them from Ghilan’nain this morning. She has produced a prototype of new enchanted armor set, called The Taken Shape, and offered it as a gift for me. Look through the schematics and notes and tell whether they are viable? June is always so jealous of his own skill that his judgement cannot be trusted.”  
“Do you have an example of finished set?” Dirthamen asked as he took the papers.  
“Yes. Senris, would you?”  
“Of course, my lord.” the stone-faced sentinel replied and clapped his hands, once. A side door opened, and an elvhen man wearing a red-black armor walked in.  
“You have permission to report.” Senris told him.  
“The leather armor gives off faint, living heat. It’s heavier than it looks, but feels somehow comforting. Feels quite natural in surprisingly short time.” the man began.  
“The Skin that Stalks.” Falon’Din leaned to take a peek on first paper Dirthamen was reading. “What a ridiculous name. What’s that one? The Eye That Weeps?”  
The man lifted up an amulet resting against his chest. There was a gem in the center, containing liquid which glowed sluggish red.  
“This is a bit clammy, and sticks to flesh jealously. But the advantages in a fight are indisputable.”  
“Is that hair?” Falon’Din asked, focusing on man’s belt. “The stitching on the belt.”  
“It can’t be cut even with sharpest knife. The ring is also a bit particular. It pulses like a heartbeat.”  
“I swear I have seen that particular shade of dark red somewhere. Like autumn leaves.” Falon’Din noted absently. “Or blood.”  
Elgar’nan saw Dirthamen looking up from the first page. His eyes focused on the belt, and then at the amulet, ring and armor. He opened his mouth, a flicker of worry passing on his face, and shut it again.  
“Is it viable?” Elgar’nan asked.  
Dirthamen didn’t answer. His face grew whiter with each page he read, and his hands started to tremble. He turned a page and swallowed violently.  
“What does it say?” Falon’Din grew curious and leaned closer to his brother to see what he was reading. “It begged for a kiss when I removed the eye and—“  
He was interrupted by disgusting noise. Dirthamen, who had gotten to end of the page, vomited loudly. The contents of his stomach spread all over the tablecloth and the dishes in front of him.  
“By Void, boy! Since when you have been so skittish?” Elgar’nan roared, jumping up before the mess running over the table reached him.  
Dirthamen didn’t answer. He pulled a scarf from Falon’Din’s neck, revealing a ring of love bites, and wiped his mouth on it. Then God of Secrets threw it on the table and changed his shape. A grey dragon crashed through the ornate pillars of Elgar’nan’s hall and took a frenzied flight towards east.

While Elgar’nan roared curses after Dirthamen, Falon’Din snatched the stained papers from table. Whatever had been in those last four pages must have been interesting to prove such a spectacular effects.  
“What in the Void possessed your brother?” Elgar’nan demanded. His magic was crackling brightly with anger.  
Falon’Din put the last page back to table and cleared his throat.  
“It appears that Ghilan’nain’s armor prototype is made from Dirthamen’s girlfriend.”

 

 

 

> Notes on the first attempt: Improper valences on the bindings woven into the materials led to a catastrophic unravelling. The batch is lost, but Andruil reassures me that I can begin work again in a minute and then I’ll be able to illuminate whether the imperfection is within the materials or the enchantment. The subject is already regenerating itself as I write these words; how practical.
> 
> ───────
> 
> Notes on the second attempt: Elegance eludes me. The aim is to improve the coordination of the body and sharpen the perception of the heart, but graft does not live long enough to plumb it’s worth, even though it regenerates within thirty to fifty heartbeats. The current process is ruin. This batch is lost. Begin again.
> 
> ───────
> 
> Notes on the third attempt: Two enchantments whose matrices should have meshed, caught. The combustion caused such damage it broke several previously forged pieces. There is now a resonance between them, however, and light on my thoughts: an enchantment linked in tandem, as the neck turns the head or the wrist twists the hand? The regeneration process has become slower; now the materials take half a day to refresh. Maybe I should remove the hand at same time with heart to mesh the matrices for a ring properly.
> 
> ───────
> 
> Notes on the fourth attempt: The weave goes smoothly: bound tightly between many items, the stress on the energy produces finer results than a singular enchantment. This peculiar creature Andruil brought me has been an asset, as I explained to it as a courtesy before final work began. For a test subject, it was certainly sentimental; it begged for a kiss when I removed the eye and again when I began flaying it. Since it had been serving me so well, I granted the request. It no longer stirred when I was finished with my work, and it appears I don’t have more materials at my disposal. But using up the stock was well worth it. Adjustments to the underlay were a great success, and will allow the recipe to be made with material taken from lesser elvhen, if the need arises.
> 
> _Below the letters, possibly in lieu of a signature, is the stamp of a stylized halla head._
> 
> _Taken together, diagrams and ratios carefully inked at the bottom of the last of these notes could be turned into a schematic that replicates the creation of these artefacts._


	9. Sun's Sons

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dirthamen tells Lavellan a story about Mythal's death.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You get extra chapter for my birthday like every year. This one is extra in a sense that it's not furthering the plot (visibly), but I'm too fond of it not to publish.
> 
> Best accompanied by "Betrayal" from Enemy at the Gates OST https://youtu.be/Fm_Te7vYkyw

Lavellan woke up in the middle of chaos, with Dirthamen looming over her. There was something cold and clammy under her. It felt wet. A house burned behind her, and elves were running to all directions. She had no idea where she was, or what had happened to her. She had no clothes, and her skin was cold enough to have been exposed to air for long time. Last thing she remembered was Mythal telling her to sleep.  
“Don’t.”, Dirthamen said, when Lavellan felt around with her hand to find out what she was laying on. There was a wild, shaken look in his eyes as he pulled her up. “We are going home.”

Before she had time to react, he moved them through the Fade. She could still see the fire colouring the sky, but it was further, now.  
“What happened?” Lavellan asked, her voice a bit hoarse. It sounded like she hadn’t talked for some time. Maybe she had breathed too much smoke.   
“You don’t remember?” Dirthamen asked.   
“No. Last thing I remember was the Well luring me away from the house. Andruil shot me, and I woke up in a dungeon. Then when Ghilan’nain came, Mythal told me to sleep.” Lavellan said. She was confused.   
“Praise the stars.” Dirthamen let out a breath he had been holding and embraced her so tightly that it almost hurt. “You died, Roshan. By Ghilan’nain’s hand.”  
“Died for real?” Lavellan asked uncertainly.  
“I love you.” Dirthamen murmured in her hair as he held her. “I couldn’t bear it.”  
A sweet warmth bloomed inside her, opening like a flower.   
“I love you too.” Lavellan whispered, and lifted her face up for a long-awaited kiss. Dirthamen’s fingers moved to rest against the back of her head, and his lips parted as he bent down to meet hers.  
“Who is this, Falon’Din?” a male voice demanded, interrupting the kiss before it happened. “Did he have more than one girlfriend, or is he on rebound?”  
Dirthamen pulled back from the kiss with a sudden start and threw his cloak around Lavellan.  
“It’s the same one whom you already met at the dinner. After a fashion.” Falon’Din said helpfully.  
“Interesting.” the tall, handsome man accompanying Falon’Din stated. “Very interesting. Dirthamen. Come here and introduce your not-lover to me.”  
“Father, this is Roshan.” Dirthamen said. “Roshan, my father.”  
There was shouting coming from the west, and Lavellan thought she could recognize Ghilan’nain’s voice. She didn’t know why, but hearing it sent cold shivers along her spine.   
“I expect you both to attend family dinner next Saturday.” Elgar’nan remarked. “Consider it as a price for not holding you here to wait for Ghilan’nain. And if you don’t show up, I’ll send Andruil after you.”  
Dirthamen acknowledged him with a reluctant nod before casting a spell to take them home.

\--

It felt like eerie repeat from previous events to sit in the kitchen, wrapped in several blankets. Lavellan rubbed her hands together, trying to get warm.

“The wards don’t seem to be broken.” Dirthamen said as he measured the leaves in tea kettle.   
“It was the Well. I was feeling uneasy for whole evening, and then I thought I fell asleep. But it wasn’t a dream after all.” Lavellan said, her voice becoming uneasy. “I didn’t know Mythal could do such a thing. I’m frightened, Dirthamen. If she can just... turn me off like that and take over, how can I know that my thoughts are really my own? My feelings? You? What if I wake up one day, and find out I’m not real? That I was just a plot to hurt you, and real I died months ago?”  
Dirthamen’s voice was serious and sad when he replied.   
“It is a possibility, gaidhalas.”  
“I can’t handle it.”, Lavellan’s voice broke. “You should trigger the spell and kill me. Then, when I woke up, we would know if it was me for real, or just a plot.”   
“And what if you don’t wake up? It is very real possibility that the spell is aimed at me. I fear that if you died by my hand, you would not wake up. It would be like mother to want revenge on me. After all, I killed her.”, Dirthamen said quietly. His eyes were very bright, and there was something fragile in his expression. He reminded Lavellan of prisoners brought to receive justice from Inquisitor. About Ser Ruth, in particular. The connection didn’t make it any easier to accept what he had just told her.   
“ _You_ killed Mythal?” Lavellan repeated.   
“Yes.”  
“Why?” Lavellan asked in small voice, trying to wrap her mind around it.  
“It’s a long story, Roshan.” Dirthamen said, sitting down on opposite side of table. “I will tell you how it all began.”

 

> My father was born sixteen or seventeen years before the war started. Where, I don’t know. There are nothing to be found about his parents, or whether he had any other family. I suspect he was originally one of the countless children fending for themselves in the slums of Ise’Melana, the Summer City. Falon’Din asked about his parents once when we were young. I remember father giving him one of his easy smiles and telling that he was the eldest son of Sun and Earth, and he had a ring to prove it. The ring was the most splendid thing he owned, with a beautifully carved sun symbol. But he never wore it, even though he later took the sigil for his own. Mother nagged about it when the funds were low, but father would not change his mind. I think the ring signified something else to him. It seemed like a grim war trophy from some personal fight, an essential part of what had made him who he was.
> 
> Earliest records of his history I have been able to find, tell that my father signed up for the army of Ise’Melana in a war against Ghialean. He called himself Elgar’nan and paid the required deposit of one hundred coins to buy a position as a field sergeant. Those days, one was required to pay for his own arms and armor, to prove he was a free man with enough prestige to enter the army. The sum was considerable by standards of that age, and far more than a humbler folk could ever hope to have. The war itself was nothing but a petty fight between two factions, but before it ended, my father had gained a command of his own squad by his merits. There is still a certain ferocious edge to his magic, which served him well from the beginning, and he has an eye for strategy. He gained a reputation as someone who didn’t care what it cost to accomplish the goal, and he was generous about splitting the spoils with his men. Many of them followed him when that first war ended.
> 
> Senris was one of those men. I believe it was his idea to establish a mercenary company under a pretence of a noble family and retainers. The upper class found mercenaries too distasteful to deal with, even though the need was there, and father had the looks and the gall to pass as a member of privileged. Senris taught him the knowledge he needed, and my informants told me that Elgar’nan’s men considered it a great joke to collect an offering among themselves to send their leader to this and that noble gathering to rub elbows with nobles and get new contracts. Father told the nobles outrageous stories about his supposed holdings and powerful relatives, and his men howled when he recounted the lies to them when he came back. He was shrewd to put his words just so that he was never caught on a lie, but lies they were, all the same.
> 
> Ten years a far larger conflict escalated between two city states, and Sun’s Sons were contracted to fight in it. That is where my parents met, on opposite sides of war. My mother’s father had taken part in unsuccessful plot against more influential noble, and he lost his holdings and his head in the war. The victor offered my grandfather’s title and holdings to Elgar’nan as a payment for his service. All he needed to do was to bond with the late lord’s heir, my mother.
> 
> Outsiders pitied her for her fate, but mother just smiled, and accepted my father’s proposal. She once told us that when she had understood what was going to happen, she had gathered everything she could about the invading force, and suggested the trade herself for the victorious marquis. Mother believed that history could be nudged, or shoved, to make fates turn like she wanted. And I think she saw something she wanted in father.
> 
> With mother on the board, things changed. She made father teach her everything he knew about war, and within two years, she was outfitting her own troops and fighting at his side. We were born during third year of their union, and mother was forever bitter for the timing. While she laid down in a birthing bed, father had won a command she had coveted for herself, and made his name as a general.
> 
> I remember growing up in a series of war camps and tents. Father was adamant about not leaving us behind. He didn’t trust the servants, and there hardly were any who could have cared for us. Mother and father fuelled all their money for new spells, weapons and whatever the company needed, keeping up only barest pretences of nobility. I remember parties, where all the servants and waiters were actually soldiers from Sun’s Sons, and Senris playing the part of father’s second.
> 
> Growing up in a military camp gives a certain kind of outlook in life. Falon’Din took to soldier’s life more eagerly than I. He was always outgoing one, while I preferred to keep my distance. Mother said that Falon’Din had inherited father’s worst traits without similar experiences which kept Elgar’nan grounded. Our natures were different, and I naturally gravitated towards my mother’s company while Falon’Din enjoyed the banter among father’s men.
> 
> The tensions between children of Sky and children of Stone had grown sharper each passing year. I was little over twenty when the war finally broke out, and it was unlike any war I had previously seen. It was grim, and ruthless, and there were times I couldn’t believe we could win, or even survive. That war lasted for over four hundred years, and it bred fear across Elvhenan. It changed everything. When the war began, I had been a spymaster for my father’s company, trying to come up with new and unexpected ways to know our enemy. But when the nobility of Elvhenan named father for highest command, I had to become more, and so I did. During those four centuries of bloodshed, I had started to cast a shadow far larger than myself. They called me Keeper of Secrets, and when the war ended, I found that I had an army of whispers at my disposal.
> 
> We were generals, first. Then we became respected elders, kings, finally gods. The first temples were built on the year when Mythal led her people down to feast on Titan and cut the dwarves from their magic. And it all started to change.
> 
> I would lie if I told you I didn’t enjoy it. Having unlimited power is something a man can get drunk on. In early years, it was like having a wishing well. Anything I could have, was mine. All they wanted in return was knowledge. Secrets. I had plenty, and every pilgrim brought more. I gave them one, and asked for three in return.
> 
> But people are set on how they wanted to see their gods. There were obligations one had to fulfil, and our roles started to chafe. Some of us were comfortable with it, some were less so, but we all agreed we could not shake the balance of power lest it ruined us all. A thousand years later we all had withdrawn into Fade, and spoke to our People only through priests and messengers. I believe it was during that time when mother took Solas into her service.
> 
> She and father had become distant after their ascension, as had we all. I remember a week mother spent setting a row between Falon’Din and father. It threatened to escalate in a war, and finally they agreed to set their disagreement with a fight of champions. Mythal shook her head, frustrated, when she left the chamber.   
>  “I have had enough of this.” she told me. “Your brother is too greedy for his own honor. Elgar’nan will not allow anyone to shine brighter than him.”
> 
> Father was insistent about his tradition of family dinners. It meant something extremely important for him, I think. It was one of his peculiarities, like his denial to leave us behind to be raised at mother’s estate when we were children. But it changed, too. Falon’Din stopped coming, and then one week, mother begged her absence under a disguise of her duties. I still came, every week, even though there was little we could talk about. Falon’Din was always father’s favourite, just like I was Mythal’s.
> 
> But Mythal had a new favourite, now. The Wolf. He was one of her sworn servants at first. Young, bright spirit of Wisdom Mythal summoned from Beyond to take a form. At the first, Wolf merited for nothing but a side note in the archive I kept about mother. There were similar archives about each of Evanuris, not written down but imprinted in minds of my faithful. It was safer way to guard my secrets, divided among countless slaves and priests. Nobody knew who held what.
> 
> I only took note about Wolf shortly before Falon’Din’s rebellion began. My brother had become reclusive, and I needed someone who had mastery over the Fade. Mythal offered her Wolf. When I first entered her sanctum, I was disturbed to find there was a statue of Wolf in her temple, honouring him as one of the gods. It was not something one would give to a servant, no matter how beloved and respected. When I asked about it from mother, she merely smiled and said Wolf’s talents measured up for him to be one of us.
> 
> I found the Wolf intelligent and bright, even though somewhat rash in his actions. He was proud of his knowledge, and didn’t always stop to think the consequences of his actions. Under mother’s urging, we become acquaintances first, friends later. I don’t know what father thought when mother made the move for Wolf to be accepted as one of the Evanuris, or what private conversations had been held between them. He never said anything about it, except once when we had a dinner between two of us.   
>  “I’ve seen his like before.” he remarked. “Bright-eyed idealists, who believe a world can be changed, and start a war to make it so. But they don’t yet know what ash tastes like in their mouths. It’s far easier to speak about inequality of being a slave than truly free himself from such a fate. Burning vallaslin off his face won’t change the fact he still is Mythal’s dog.”  
>  “What would you have him to do, instead?” I asked. I remember feeling annoyed for his scorn, because I was much taken by the Wolf’s enthusiasm, just like mother.   
>  “Fishing for secrets, Dirthamen?” father asked with easy smile. “To truly escape one’s bonds, there is only one way. One must destroy himself first. Then remake his whole life and future from the ashes of old.”
> 
> It was Falon’Din’s rebellion which broke the last bonds of family between us. It is not a topic I care to revisit. He turned his gaze upon mother’s people in his hunger for power. The war had ended for the rest of us, but not for Falon’Din. I believe he didn’t know any other way to live his life except from one fight to another. Neither of us had truly known peace. 
> 
> The Wolf had personally witnessed the ruin caused by Falon’Din’s first attack. He was angry, and very vocal. He spoke heated words about the power of Evanuris, and how it was used to commit outrages. It was his first brush with war. For the rest of us, it was merely one event in series of many. All of Evanuris, including those who weren’t members of my family, had seen far worse things than what Wolf spoke about. We were cynical, and numb, unable to give him the reaction he wanted. I think it was the moment which sparked the thoughts of rebellion in his mind.
> 
> Mother led us all to Falon’Din’s temple. Marching against my brother was hardest thing I had ever done, and judging by silence of mother and father, it was no easier for them. But in the end, mother bloodied Falon’Din in his own sanctum, forcing a surrender from his throat. The Wolf yapped alongside her like an eager pup, and that was when my feelings towards him began to sour. I loved Falon’Din, and I grieved for what had to happen. Seeing the Wolf rejoice his defeat made me angry. Out of spite, I named him Fen’Harel, and the name stuck.
> 
> I stayed with Falon’Din after others left, to watch him and to help him. We didn’t speak much at the beginning, when he was still weak and nursing his wounds and his pride. But one day I was saying something about the Wolf, and he remarked:   
>  “It will destroy everything when father finds out. Or maybe Mythal is planning to use him to destroy father, instead.”  
>  “What do you mean?” I asked.  
>  “Are you blind, brother? Fen’Harel and mother have been lovers for years. Those stupid statues she’s littered her palaces with. You all were so quick to damn me about taking a bit of power while mother has been doing it for years. The People sing stories of her wisdom, how she’s only one to calm down father. They paint her as someone we couldn’t survive without, turning simple diplomacy into magic used to control a mindless brute. When father finds out about her lover, he will be hurt and furious, and everyone will turn on him on Mythal’s orders when she tells them there is no other way to stop him from destroying everything.”  
>  I still remember the wry smile on Falon’Din’s face when he took a sip of watered wine and continued:   
>  “If I had terrible reputation, father has far worse. If Mythal tells he must be taken down, he will be taken down, and she will reign supreme.”
> 
> I was upset about his words. They felt too real, and I was angry at myself for not seeing it sooner. I loved mother. She was wise, but unforgiving, a defender but also ruthless. When she wanted something, she never gave up. I started to wonder if she harboured secret resentment towards father for bringing her House down all those years ago. I had not inherited her thirst for glory, not like Falon'Din. Like calls like, and maybe Falon'Din knew her better than I did. These thoughts tormented me, and I couldn't leave them be. I felt I had failed Falon'Din for helping others to strike him down, and I couldn't fail father, too.
> 
> I started to watch mother and Fen'Harel. After only a month, I became convinced that they were indeed lovers. To buy myself time to think what to do and protect mother, I told my priests to put the statue of Wolf into my temple vestibule as a sign of our friendship. It irked me to see the thing, but one does what is necessary, and as far as distractions and lies go, that was hardly worst thing I have done.
> 
> Finally I decided there was no other way to deal with situation than to talk with mother directly. I asked her to come my temple, and invited Falon'Din and father to arrive half an hour after her. I wanted to settle the matter between four of us, not including the Wolf or the rest of the Evanuris. Falon'Din sighed and said that my faith in our family was childish, but he agreed to bring father with him nonetheless.
> 
> Mother came alone through her eluvian, like I had asked. I had bottled my worries and suspicions inside me for too long. The secret was hard to bear, and it all came spilling out. I was hurting like a child when I shouted at her, demanding to know if she truly planned to ruin everything for her foolish crush on the Wolf.  
>  "For all your years, you are nothing but a child.” she said to me. "You can't possibly understand."  
>  "I understand you are planning to ruin father, just like you ruined Falon'Din! You could have chosen other way to stop him instead of humiliating him in front of everyone. You let yourself to be swayed by the Wolf! How could you do that? You can't throw away all of us just because you have a new fuck toy."  
>  Mother's face had that amused, arrogant look all parents wear when they laugh at their child's naivety, and it only made me angrier.  
>  "Dirthamen, this world has to change. The time of generals is over. Your father knows nothing but war. That is all he has ever known. Isn't it what he always says? It will be better for People. My wolf is right. Falon'Din's rebellion proved we can't go on like this."  
>  "But he's your husband! Didn't you ever love him at all? Or us? Don't we mean anything to you? Wolf is just your lover. We are your family.” I pleaded.  
>  "You must learn that sometimes terrible choices are all that remain. There are times when you can't save people you love, no matter how hard you try.” mother said, reaching to cup my face with her hand. She was attempting to comfort me, like so many times before. But I was having none of it.  
> When the surface of eluvian changed, signalling the arrival of father and Falon'Din, mother turned to look that way and pulled her hand away before she ever touched me. I stroke her in my anger, and understood too late that she had turned all her barriers towards the mirror. She never expected an attack from me. My spell hit her, cutting through her as easily as she were my enemy on the field.
> 
> I was in shock. I still don't remember much of what happened next. I remember father's grim face when he told me to lift up mother’s cooling corpse, and Falon'Din urging me to go through eluvian, quickly. Two of them framed an elaborate plot to shift the blame, making it look like all three of us had conspired to kill her instead of letting me to become sole target like I deserved. We took her to her own temple, and I held her when her sentinels woke to danger and the Wolf came upon us.
> 
> After Mythal died, the Wolf became uncontrollable. He started a rebellion, and Elvhenan began to burn. I withdrew from my followers, not wanting to see what my unthinking action had brought. I built this place as an attempt to watch the stars and see if mother's soul would emerge again from the Beyond, but I never found her. When I received Wolf's invitation, I had already seen what was going to happen to me. I walked to my fate willingly, thinking I deserved what he had planned for me. I never knew he was going to take the rest of us, too.

 

The tea had cooled down long ago, but Dirthamen still held the mug between his hands. The kitchen was silent, and Lavellan felt like her heart would break when she looked at him. He expected her to leave. It was clear from the way he wouldn't meet her eyes. When she stood up, pushing her chair back, his shoulders fell. She walked around the table and stopped behind him.  
"I'm so sorry.” Lavellan said and wrapped her arms around his shoulders.   
"Why you do this for me?” he asked after a moment. "I thought you would hate me."  
"I killed my whole clan because I chose wrong.” Lavellan replied. "I can't be your judge. And I think you have already paid enough. It was a grievous mistake, but still a mistake."  
He was quiet for a long time before he finally spoke.  
"Thank you.” Dirthamen said.  
“Was it very… bad? The place where he imprisoned you?” Lavellan asked hesitantly. Solas had spoken of eternal torment deserved for those who had killed Mythal. June’s prison, as she remembered it, had reminded her more of a craft room than any kind of cell.   
“Yes. It was.”  


 


	10. Elgar'nan

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dirthamen and Lavellan are invited to dinner at Elgar'nan's. Meeting her not-boyfriend's father doesn't go well for Lavellan.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Stylish Inquisition outfits by jadenwithwings http://jadenwithwings.deviantart.com/art/Inquisition-Formal-Outfits-560490376

Even though Lavellan had not forgiven Vivienne about the stake, she was facing a serious problem where she could have used the enchanter’s professional advice. What a woman was supposed to wear for a dinner with God of Vengeance when she was not-dating his son and involuntarily enslaved by his dead wife to make them all suffer?

Dirthamen was no use. His tastes ran to dramatic and swirly, and Lavellan didn’t want to look like him. It was too couple-ish. Even though it was true that she had been loaning one of his black velvet robes after losing her own clothes in Ghilan’nain’s house fire, it was not something Lavellan wanted to advertise to his father.

She thought of asking from Falon’Din, but Falon’Din was not to be trusted. It was more than likely that he would lie just to see the embarrassing moment when Lavellan realized she had dressed like fake Chantry Mother from “Damned and Divine”-bordello, or whatever the ancient elvhen equivalent was.

The Dalish clothes were not an option for the same reason. Keeper robes were decorated with symbols of gods, and it would be uncomfortable to wear the sigil of your not-boyfriend’s father flapping over one’s butt. Besides, even though she might technically be Mythal’s servant and she was quite sure that Abelas had a stash full of sentinel wear, she didn’t want to appear as a priest or a slave.

When in doubt, she had always chosen the red uniform. Lavellan had never been fond of the outfit, but it was easy, and suited to most occasions. Unfortunately, it was what she had worn when Vivienne burned her at stake, and the experience had soured her opinion towards it.

Finally she gave up and asked Dirthamen if he could arrange someone to steal her armor from Skyhold. It was best option she could come up with. Dagna had copied the design from Ameridan’s armor. The Inquisition sigil was somewhat neutral choice, and would make her feel less like a beggar.  
“It’s not comfortable, but at least it fits, and with all those enchantments I’m less likely to be murdered wearing it.”, Lavellan said unhappily.  
“It’s a bit controversial choice.” Dirthamen answered, interrupting his work for a moment. He looked uneasy. “Even though father might appreciate it, I’d prefer to see you wear something else.”  
“How it would be controversial?” Lavellan’s eyes narrowed. “You told me you all are former soldiers.”  
“Armor jokes.” Dirthamen said neutrally. “Lots and lots of armor jokes. I really would not care to hear them. And I don’t think you would like those either.”  
“All right.” Lavellan sighed. “But I still don’t have anything to wear.”  
“I’ll send Fear and Deceit to Val Royeaux.”, Dirthamen promised.  
Lavellan didn’t feel very assured to know that two enslaved ravens from Dalish legend were responsible for her fashion choices, but she nodded and decided to hope for the best.

\--

She decided that if Fear and Deceit ever wanted to change their master, the Inquisition was hiring. Lavellan couldn’t help but admire the most dashing Inquisition uniform she had ever seen. It was a combination dark grey, black and ochre yellow, and she loved it. It almost made up for all the elves staring at her. She had never seen so many ancients at the same place as in the yard surrounding Elgar’nan’s abode, and they all had looked at her. She was starting to have uncomfortable feeling that her latest death might have been far more spectacular than Dirthamen had told her. Or it might have been him, of course. It made sense that the ancients would stare at one of their gods.

It got worse when sentinels marked with Elgar’nan’s vallaslin escorted them to great hall. Elgar’nan, whom Lavellan remembered meeting only briefly, was already waiting in a solar with Falon’Din.  
“How nice to see you both. Senris, you can cancel the order to Andruil.” Elgar’nan said with a smile.  
Vir’Abelasan muttered in the back of Lavellan’s mind.  
_“Beware of his smiles.”_ the voices whispered.  
“You look much livelier than first time we met, Inquisitor.” Elgar’nan continued.  
“Thank you.” Lavellan said coolly. She had survived Orlesians; she would survive this, too. “I fear I wasn’t at my best at the moment. Dying is never a pleasant experience.”  
“Oh, but father meant your first meeting, not the second.” Falon’Din said innocently.  
“That’s true.” Elgar’nan nodded benevolently. “It’s not every day my son brings home someone whom I recently saw as an—“  
The rest of his words were cut out by Dirthamen placing his gloved hands firmly over Lavellan’s ears. Lavellan had never studied reading lips, but what little she could make out of Elgar’nan speech, it looked like he was saying ‘armor’. It made absolutely no sense. Probably one of armor jokes Dirthamen had told her about. Ancient elves and their sense of humour.  
She fished gloves from her uniform pocket, pulled them on and pushed Dirthamen’s hands away.  
“Why did you do that?” Lavellan glared at him. “I can handle poor jokes.”  
“I didn’t bring you here to be insulted by my father or my brother.” Dirthamen said stiffly.  
Lavellan was going to give him a sharp reply, when she noticed Elgar’nan watching her hands. The gloves, to be exact. Feeling reserved, she put them back to her pocket.  
“Ir abelas.” Elgar’nan said lightly. “I think the dinner is ready to be served.”

 

It all went well until the second course was collected away, and Lavellan excused herself to visit a bathroom. Well of Sorrows was behaving for once, supplying her with necessary information about right forks and other courtly habits. But she felt like a fish out of water, and it made her anxious. Elgar’nan kept watching her with shrewd eyes, and Dirthamen was withdrawn, while Falon’Din seemed to wear a permanent grin which made Lavellan just feel worse.

She asked for a cold water from a talking statue which held a jar above its head, and washed her face. Feeling the cold water on her skin soothed her frayed nerves, and she closed her eyes, breathing deeply. She would get through of this, and it would be over. Just a dessert to go.  
“Interesting.”, Elgar’nan said, and took her gloves from the edge of the fountain. “You wear these only when you touch my son. Why?”  
Lavellan startled, taking a step back. Attempting to collect herself, she straightened her posture and replied:  
“I don’t want to trigger the curse.”  
“I know all about Mythal’s vengeance, and I don’t believe you.” Elgar’nan dismissed her words with a gesture. He took the gloves and threw them at her feet. “These are not enough, shemlen. If you truly cared about not triggering the curse, you would not have come here with Dirthamen.”  
“That is a lie.” Lavellan felt a flash of anger heating her cheeks. “You told him that if we didn’t come, you’d send Andruil after us. I have been hunted by Andruil. I know how that ends.”  
“Hunted by Andruil, and loved by her. Like June. Or Falon’Din. Or Ghilan’nain, in her cold, removed way.” Elgar’nan stated. “You are a fortune hunter of worst kind. You are not what I want for my son.”  
“Do you think I wanted this for him either? Or myself? I fear this whole thing is nothing but Myt—“, Elgar’nan’s magic interrupted Lavellan in the middle of sentence and forced her on her knees. But Lavellan grit her teeth together, and resisted. She would not kneel. This man was no god. She was not guilty. She ended up with one knee on the floor, and another hovering mere inch above it.  
“Dirthamen is starting to grow suspicious of your disappearance, even though I’m sitting next to him. He was always good at sensing mirror spells.” Elgar’nan said like he was discussing weather. “I’ll make this quick. You will only hurt him in the end, and I will not see it happen. It’s best to nip his crush in a bud.”  
Lavellan wasn’t surprised at all. So she was going to die again. The thought was oddly calming, far easier than going back to Elgar’nan’s uncomfortable dinner party. Parental love probably filled Mythal’s requirements.  
“If you want end this”, Lavellan croaked as she felt unseen force lifting her up by a throat and starting to squeeze. “Tell me how does one destroy herself to escape bonds of slavery, if Solas’ way didn’t work?”  
She glimpsed a faintly surprised look on Elgar’nan’s face before her vision broke into red spots and death claimed her.

\--

 

Lavellan was quite sure her trachea was still broken. It felt like her throat was on fire, and everything in her field of vision was tinted pink. She doubted Elgar’nan had suddenly changed pristine white floors of his palace for rose-coloured marble while she had laid dead in bathroom.  
She could hear raised voices coming through the doors leading to dining room. The sentinels standing on guard looked a bit disturbed when they saw Lavellan approaching, but lowered their weapons and opened the doors for her. She had let her hair down to hide the swelling around her throat, but without mirror, she couldn’t tell if there were haematomas in her eyes. Lavellan yanked the high collar of her uniform even higher to hide bruises and hoped there would be something cold and soothing for dessert.

Lavellan slipped on her seat next to Dirthamen and noted that her prayers had been answered; an artfully arranged crystal dish filled with strawberry sorbet had been placed in front of her. Eager to stop the burning pain, she spooned piece and let out a broken breath of relief when cold slid down her damaged throat, numbing it. Swallowing hurt, but it was worth it. And if the spoon turned a bit pinkish, it was only natural because strawberry sorbet was red.  
“You were gone for a long time.” Falon’Din remarked.  
“A former friend told me that time spent on improving one’s appearance is never wasted.” Lavellan said. The words came out a bit croaked, and she ate three spoonful of sorbet before she managed to force her voice to work: “Her advice served me well until our paths separated.”  
“You sound hoarse.” Dirthamen said. There was sharp, hidden edge in his words.  
“It’s just the cold.” Lavellan lied. She looked at Elgar’nan and smiled sweetly. “I must say I appreciate your choice of dessert, my lord.”  
“I thought you might.” Elgar’nan said with amusement. “Would you like a second serving? There is more.”  
“Yes, please.” Lavellan said and accepted another bowl from a servant.

It was clear that Dirthamen was not willing to linger for long after the dessert had been served. Lavellan refused the little glass of alcohol a servant offered, not wanting to make herself hurt worse. Another of Elgar’nan’s servants was holding her cloak for her, when God of Vengeance stepped in.  
“I will assist.” Elgar’nan said, and the servant fell back with a deep, apologetic bow.  
He helped Lavellan slid the cloak over her shoulders and made a large bowtie under her swollen throat.  
“I thought of your question.” Elgar’nan said conversationally. “What I told Dirthamen was a metaphor, but a true one. There are bindings which can’t be broken, but any man can be made to release his hold if you have enough will to make him do it. It’s a task you must take, not anyone else. Otherwise you won’t be free, but someone else’s slave.”  
“I’m not fishing for your blessing.” Lavellan said, her voice breaking. Her throat was starting to hurt again.  
“You are.” Elgar’nan disagreed with a smile. “Otherwise you wouldn’t have lied.”  
“I don’t lie for your sake.” Lavellan glared at him.  
“I know.” Elgar’nan’s smile grew even wider. “If you weren’t under the influence of Mythal’s Well, I might reconsider my opinion of you.”  
“Come, Roshan.” Dirthamen called her. “Falon’Din is coming with us.”  
“Farewell, my lord.” Lavellan nodded to Elgar’nan and felt almost childishly relieved when she slipped her hand in Dirthamen’s. The dinner was finally over.

 

\--

 

"Third death, by Andruil. Fourteenth of Nubulis.” Dirthamen said. Something golden formed between his cupped hands, and he threw it towards Falon’Din who captured it neatly. Friend of the Dead dipped his fingertips in a small bowl filled with blood, and smeared it across the glowing globe Dirthamen had thrown him. After studying it for a moment, Falon’Din sent the stained globe upwards. The ball dissolved into dozens of reddish-gold lines reaching across the star map the twins had created on the walls of Dirthamen’s observatory.  
“Fourth death, by you.” Dirthamen continued, creating another globe for Falon’Din.  
“The date?” Falon’Din asked as he captured it.  
“I thought you would remember. Twenty-eight of Molioris.” Dirthamen replied. There was faint bitterness in his voice, and it made Lavellan uneasy. But Falon’Din wasn’t bothered.  
“Stop whining about it.”, Falon’Din ordered. “You have done far worse things to me, and do I complain? Never. I’m the very soul of courtesy and tact.”  
The very soul of courtesy and tact smeared a generous amount of blood on the globe and turned to Lavellan.  
“Give your arm here. I need to cut you again. We’re running out of blood marking your deaths.”  
She extended her arm to Falon’Din, preparing mentally for a pinch. At least his knives were sharp. But there was no need for a knife; Falon’Din merely squeezed her arm and held it over the bowl.  
“It’s been half hour.” Dirthamen remarked.  
“Yes, but the wound hasn’t started to congeal.” Falon’Din answered. “The regeneration process is slowing even more. You’d better work decreased rate in your calculations if you expect me to navigate the path through Beyond.”  
Dirthamen muttered something unsavoury under his breath and started to pull together another set of threads by magic. It looked like this would take some time, so Lavellan went to kitchen to fill a mug with ice cubes. Her throat was hurting again.

“Death by decapitation at Lake Calenhad. Seventeenth of Nubulis.”  
“Death by a sword in the battle of Jader. Thirteenth of Molioris.”  
“Death by fire at Halamshiral. Fifth of Cassus, 9:43 Dragon.”  
“A near death at Haven. Buried by avalanche. Sixth of Pluitanis, 9:42 Dragon.”  
“A near death at Haven. Marked by Fen’Harel’s orb. Twenty-first of Umbralis, 9:41 Dragon.”  
“A near death by an arrow. Bandits attacking Clan Lavellan. Eight of Molioris, 9:30 Dragon.”  
“A near death by drowning. Twenty-third of Eluviesta. 9:15 Dragon.”  


It was strange to see events of her life and deaths woven in a tapestry of magic. As Lavellan understood it, the threads Dirthamen created were moments of her life between deaths, marked by movements of the stars. Falon’Din followed the path of her deaths, marking the passage of her soul through Beyond and back again. For Lavellan, the tapestry was odd yet beautiful creation. She could not read the story it told, but evidently it was not so for the twins.  
“The threads are all pulling to one direction.” Falon’Din remarked. “Can you work out the date yet?”  
“First of Matrinalis.” Dirthamen said. His voice was cool and controlled.  
“So it seems.” Falon’Din shrugged. “She has...”  
“Seven days left.”  
“And three deaths to go.” Falon’Din supplemented, turning towards Lavellan. “Time to stop hiding behind my brother and start getting yourself killed, Lavellan.”  
Lavellan bit the ice cube she had been sucking and said reluctantly:  
“Two deaths.”  


 

“I’m sorry.” Lavellan said to shimmering barrier barring her entrance to first floor. “I didn’t want to tell you, because I didn’t want you to get hurt. Elgar’nan is your father. He did it for you. He said he didn’t want you to get hurt by Mythal’s spell, and you know I agree with him.”  
She felt terrible. She pressed her forehead against the cold barrier and continued with hoarse voice:  
“Dying is necessary. I can’t go on like this. It is not fair to love you, not when I don’t know what is really me and what is influenced by Well. Neither do you. This is only way, and you have to accept it. I can’t have another relationship based on lies by omission.”  
She chuckled joylessly and noted:  
“It seems that I’ve picked up bad habits from Solas. For not telling you sooner, I’m truly sorry.”

“I don’t think Dirthamen is going to talk to you.” Falon’Din said, touching her shoulder. “Come upstairs. It’s best to leave him be.”  
“Such a drama queen.” Lavellan sighed as they climbed up stairs. “Even though he’d say it’s unreasonable to expect him to be perfectly fine with the fact I didn’t tell your father killed me during the dinner.”  
“You telling him that it was necessary and he didn’t need to know was not what he wants to hear.”, Falon’Din pointed out. “He’ll sulk for a week or two, revelling in his misery and anger and feeling betrayed before coming to his senses. That is what he always does. But we don’t have that kind of time if we’re going to find out mother’s plan.”  
“If you stay with him, I’ll leave and try to find some answers.” Lavellan said with heavy heart. “If you look for me in the Fade, I’ll give you the coordinates when I die.”  
“It might be for the best.” Falon’Din agreed. “If you go to Halamshiral, my people there will send you to Sylaise. I’ll meet with them in the Fade to set things up.”  
“But you will stay with Dirthamen?”  
“Of course I will.”, Falon’Din promised, and for first time since they had met Lavellan was able to find a bit of her former faith in a god she had once chosen as her patron.  
But she didn’t say it out loud. Lavellan quietly collected her things and left Dirthamen’s secret sanctum to find her own path.

 


	11. Sylaise

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's All Soul's day for Sylaise's barbeque party.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is monstrously long. For soundtrack:  
> Lavellan makes up her mind in the dungeon: Last Samurai OST, Final Charge: https://youtu.be/nYZvq_pPeqg  
> For the temple of Sacred Ashes: The Phoenix Rises from X-Men: Last Stand https://youtu.be/uyPB6cKZqAY?t=2m15s  
> For the ending: Trespasser theme https://youtu.be/-8wr7Qxjy3c

There was a bear following her. It cantered behind Lavellan as she walked along the forest path, supposedly out of sight but Lavellan could hear it moving through undergrowth. First bear had appeared as soon as she had left Halamshiral with sealed letter from Falon’Din to Sylaise, and when Lavellan stepped out from eluvian near Angsburg in Free Marches, another bear had been staring at her from the bushes. She couldn’t tell if it was same animal, because they both were brown and about the same size, but considering the Dalish legends claimed bears were beloved by Dirthamen, Lavellan had her doubts. The bear had shadowed her every step ever since, and when Lavellan fell asleep last night, she had seen it staring at her from the woods.

The bear thing was starting to irk her. She stopped walking, and listened for a moment. The sound of bear moving stopped as well. Annoyed, Lavellan spurted into run. She ran until her newly healed throat felt like bursting, and then stopped only to hear the sound of bear crashing through the woods. The creature could run for sure, probably faster than she could. Lavellan turned around to see a pair of eyes and a brown snout watching her behind a bush of willows. Oh, fenedhis lasa.  
“This is ridiculous, Dirthamen.” Lavellan addressed the bear. “Is this how this is going to be? Every time we have an argument, you make a dramatic exit, sulk in the bedroom and then stalk me? Last time you were a bullfinch. Can’t we just discuss things like adults instead of making me guess which animal you are this time?”  
The bear didn’t answer.  
“Well, if you are still sulking, it’s my turn to speak.” Lavellan said irritably and crossed her arms over her chest. “I didn’t kiss your father. And I didn’t have sex with him either. I was washing my face in bathroom, and he gave me a shovel talk about hurting you before he strangled me to death. I don’t know whether I was out for long enough for this to count proper Evanuris death or not.”  
The bear just stared at her with beady eyes.  
“If someone should be hurt, it’s me. You have a terrible family, and I don’t know if this can ever work. Even if we got rid of the curse, there are lots of issues. You ancient elves just aren’t any good at people skills.” Lavellan told the animal. “I think your father likes me better after he killed me. It’s disturbing.”  
The bear looked sullen.  
“Look, it’s not that I don’t like you. I like you so much that I would come with you to Elgar’nan’s dinner each Saturday even if he keeps murdering me.”, Lavellan spread her hands helplessly. “But I have to get rid of the curse first, and we’re running out of time. The concept is probably unfamiliar to you, since Solas hinted the Evanuris are effectively immortal. But seven days weren’t much to begin with, now there are only six left, and I really need to talk with your mother. So as soon as I’m done with Sylaise, I’ll go back to Mythal’s sanctum, and ask the sentinels do the summoning ritual again. I’ll come back home to you when the curse is gone.”  
The bear’s small eyes glinted, and it growled at Lavellan. She scarcely could believe her own ears.  
“Are you breaking up with me? As a bear? Or does this mean you aren’t welcoming me back?” she asked. “Damn, Dirthamen, I thought you were better than this. Just for the record, you own me words. Not growls.”  
Lavellan turned around, blinking furiously, and picked up speed. Evanuris. Why, oh why, she had to fall for an Evanuris? Why couldn’t she love someone nice and straightforward, like Cullen? Or that nice hunter from clan Sabrae whom her mother had liked so much? If she only had not agreed to go to Conclave, but bonded the boy instead, she’d have a baby of her own and second one on the way, and she wouldn’t need to worry about much else than how to climb up the aravel steps since she couldn’t see her own feet. Her mother would have been so happy. And her clan wouldn’t have died.  
“I should have bonded Theron like my Keeper suggested.” she said loudly, hoping that the bear heard. “He was a bit boring and a bad kisser, but at least there wasn’t a curse ready to kill me if I kissed him. And who knows. Maybe you are a terrible, sloppy kisser. With lots of drool and too much tongue.” Lavellan sniffed, even though she didn’t believe it.

Of course, that was the moment when Sylaise’s guards chose to emerge from the woods. But Lavellan took it in stride. Talking about kissing with a bear was not even close to most embarrassing thing which had happened to her lately. And most of Evanuris seemed more or less unhinged anyway. She fit right in.

 

Sylaise’s mansion was in a flurry. Lavellan thought the place must have been a summer cabin for high-ranking shemlen noble, or a member of royalty, before Sylaise took it. There were elves running everywhere, and all of them were wearing Sylaise’s mark. Many of vallaslin were still fresh and raised, like hers had been before Solas ripped it away. An appetizing scent was coming from the kitchens, and when Lavellan was escorted through the front yard, she saw people setting up long tables for a feast. There were at least two dozen more working on a spell which was slowly making the trees form a canvas of green to shelter the guests, and Lavellan would have been curious to see what it was going to be like, but her escorts pushed her forwards.

Sylaise was blond and very beautiful, of course. She was sitting in front of a vanity, dressed in rose-coloured silk gown as maids combed her silky tresses. The moment she turned around and looked at Lavellan, Lavellan knew she wouldn’t like Sylaise. Something in her irked Lavellan. Maybe it was the way woman’s nails were perfectly manicured, or the perfect pink on her lips, but Lavellan did not like her. And it was clear that Sylaise didn’t like her either. The Evanuris watched June’s perfect form with narrowed eyes, going slowly over every miniscule detail like Lavellan was a painting or a statue instead of a person.

She didn’t even accept Falon’Din’s letter Lavellan held out for her. One of Sylaise’s maids thrust out a little golden tray for Lavellan, and she dropped the envelope on it. Sylaise waved her fingers, still watching Lavellan. A small, disgustingly effortless spark of magic dissolved the magic seals, and the maid opened the letter.  
“ _Dearest Sylaise, I’m sending you a gift I hope you find useful in your pursuits. The bearer of this letter is the shemlen elf who holds my brother’s interest. As we agreed, I’ve delivered her to you, and I’m expecting the payment promptly. I will be first to call you a sister. Best regards, Falon’Din_.” the maid read.  
“Send him a fresh batch of banana bread, and set up regular deliveries twice a week.” Sylaise said.  
“What? Falon’Din bartered me for a loaf of banana bread?” Lavellan was insulted.  
“Not banana bread as you know it, shemlen.” Sylaise said coldly. “Banana bread baked by Hearthkeeper herself. You can’t even begin to comprehend the difference.”  
“You are even vainer than I thought.” Lavellan said, looking down her nose at Sylaise. “I’m willing to bet you add red lyrium to your cooking. That must be why Dirthamen was so thin when I met him, even though you’re trying lure him with your supposedly superior cooking. He’s too smart to eat anything with red lyrium.”  
Sylaise’s eyes flashed.  
“Maybe it’s the red hair Dirthamen finds so attractive. Everyone knows that redheads are wanton. And your form is insulting. I’m the most beautiful woman on all Thedas. Not you.” Sylaise said coldly, and the elves around them nodded their heads like puppets.  
“Take her to dungeons and start pulling the hair out first. Be careful not to damage the strands, they need to be perfect for my party wig.” Sylaise commanded.  


“The nails are beautifully shaped, but I don’t know if they are special in any other way. She doesn’t even wear nail polish.” the interrogator frowned.  
“Pull them out. Maybe the nails are the trick. The hands… I don’t think it’s the hands he finds attractive enough to burn down Ghilan’nain’s estate. Calluses are gross, and the veins are way too pronounced for a dainty look.” Sylaise wrinkled her perfect nose.  
Lavellan hoped the Hearthkeeper would get wrinkles. Creators, how she hated Sylaise. Even her dungeon smelled like fake flowers, and the torture table she’d been strapped on was spotless. Nobody made a torture table from polished sylvan wood except Sylaise.  
They took pliers to her hand, and Lavellan howled. The magic preserved the nail intact, but did nothing to ease her pain. The second one was no easier, and seeing a maid scrub the nail clean and hand it to Sylaise who simply attached Lavellan’s nails over her own, was sickening.  
“Oh, by the lost Dales, Mythal!” she screamed. “This is beyond stupid! This is… Haven’t you already drank your fill of revenge? This is just petty, and it has nothing to do with justice. What kind of mother you are to allow your own child to be hurt with a mockery like this? Weren’t you supposed to be the best of Evanuris? The Protector of People, including _me_! Answer me!”  
“Silence the shemlen.” Sylaise said. “I’m the only god to be prayed to in these halls. Now, does she have any other particularly pleasing features?”  


 

She was almost grateful when it was done. The guards threw her in a cell in less nice part of the dungeon, which was unfortunately still made up with dispelling runes robbing the prisoners of their magic. Lavellan crashed down on the stone floor on her stomach and tried not to feel anything. She really regretted making that remark about her divine ass at Falon’Din’s party. And she felt strangely thankful towards Elgar’nan for strangling her, because Sylaise had decided she didn’t want Lavellan’s eyes for the still visible haematoma on her left eye. Creators, she was messed up for feeling like this.

Lavellan let out a pitiful sniff and crawled a bit further from the door, into far corner of her tiny cell. Her scalp hurt, her fingers hurt, everything hurt. Oh, how she wished she was dead instead.  
“Darling, is that you?” a familiar voice asked. “Oh, Maker, what they have done to you?”  
A brown hand slipped between bars, and hovered over Lavellan’s mangled hand, finally setting on her wrist not cause any more pain. The touch was kind, and comforting.  
“Vivienne.”, Lavellan lifted up her head to stare at the woman who had started all this. “Get your hand out of my cell, or I will break it.”  
The Divine kneeling on cell next to hers, looked hurt for a moment before all too familiar expression of distant politeness came over her.  
“There is no need for threats. I know better than offering my help when it’s not needed.” Vivienne said coolly and pulled her hand away. She turned away, retreating further from the wall connecting their cells.  
Lavellan didn’t want to speak to her. She didn’t want to know why the Divine of Southern Chantry was sitting in Sylaise’s dungeon without her priestly vestments, all alone. Because all Lavellan could think about was Vivienne at the Exalted Council, and the moment when the Divine had sentenced her to die.

 

She woke up much later to sound of cell door opening. But it was not hers; Sylaise’s guards threw Vivienne back behind bars.  
“Our mistress tells this is your last chance. You will either bow to Evanuris, or you will burn.” one of them warned in accented Common tongue.  
“Please. Why would I ever bow to someone with such a pompous lines.” Vivienne sneered, her voice dripping disapproval: “ _I am fire! And life incarnate! Now and forever! I am Sylaise!_ Is this how your mistress plans to convince Thedas? True gods, like Maker, have no need to prove their divinity. In my experience, only false gods are concerned with what others think of them.”  
“That is true.” Lavellan added from her cell, unable to resist the chance. “Corypheus did it all the time. _Feel the wrath that is Corypheus_ and countless other, equally pretentious lines.”  
Vivienne smiled, and Lavellan found herself answering the smile, even though she really shouldn’t have.  
The guard who had spoken, apparently their leader, turned away without a word and left. But apparently the rest of the guards had another task to do in the prison; one of them was already opening Lavellan’s cell.  
“It looks like the eye has healed. Our mistress requires a colour sample from the iris to design her own look for the party.” one of the guards said as he lifted up her chin.  
Lavellan swallowed, feeling ill.  
“Lavellan.”, Vivienne said, reaching through the bars. “You are the Inquisitor. You have already stood against one false god and won. You will not fall now.”  
The Divine’s voice was firm, and Lavellan managed to squeeze Vivienne’s hand briefly before the guards pulled them apart.  
“Yes.”, she whispered, trying to leash her fear. “I am the Inquisitor. I will not fall now.”

They brought her back later. How much later, Lavellan didn’t know, because she passed out soon after. But it had been some time, because when she woke up again, it was dark and she heard someone weeping quietly in another cell. Her eye hurt too badly to open it, and she gave up trying.  
“Vivienne?” she whispered quietly.  
“I’m sorry.” her former friend replied. “I’m sorry what I did to you. I thought it was a choice I had to make, but I should never have done it. I don’t know what happened to you, or how you are here, but I hope it brings some comfort to you to know my mistakes will be paid in full tomorrow.”  
“What do you mean?” Lavellan asked.  
“They are going to burn me. As a warning for those who stand against Sylaise’s will, and a symbol of bringing down the Chantry. I’m to be the main attraction at her party.”  
Lavellan swallowed. She licked her bloody, torn lips and said:  
“I don’t know if I can forgive you, Vivienne, but I’m sorry. It is not easy way to go. And I wouldn’t want it to happen to anyone. Not even you.”  
“You don’t want vengeance?”  
“I’ve drank my fill of vengeance and I’m sick of It.”, Lavellan said, laying on the floor. “I’ve seen what becomes of those who hold their regrets so close to their heart that it poisons their hearts. It is not what I want to be. It is not what I choose to become.”  
She reached with her hand through the bars and said, making up her mind:  
“When they come for you tomorrow, I will save you, Vivienne.”  
“You shouldn’t make promises you can’t keep, my dear.” Vivienne said softly, taking Lavellan’s damaged hand in hers.  
“I’m not.” Lavellan replied. “Now tell me everything which has happened in Thedas after I died so I can plan. How did you end up in here?”

“The Circle reported of worrying signs about Veil changing. It’s no longer thin in the same locations where it used to be, and thick in others. There is almost an electric feel to it. Like a charged spell only waiting for a trigger.” Vivienne explained. “We knew that Solas wanted to bring the Veil down, but I couldn’t track him. So we turned to other Evanuris, hoping to reach an alliance, or at least get assistance to help in our pursuit of Solas. Sylaise seemed the least troublesome of the lot. I was… gravely mistaken in that.”  
“It’s Solas.” a terrifying realization came over Lavellan. “He is going to bring the Veil down on All Soul’s Day. Mythal’s retribution towards Evanuris, and Solas’ vengeance. They are connected. He said that he had plans for Evanuris. And Dirthamen told me his map of stars showed something major was going to happen to my fate on All Soul’s day.”  
“But my dear… It’s the day of Sylaise’ party. Today.” Vivienne said. “I believe the Chantry will send someone for me, but I don’t know if they can get past the Evanuris.”  
“I can. Today is good day to die.” Lavellan said and cracked her knuckles.  
“You don’t seem to have lost your terrible habit of grievously bad jokes.”, Vivienne sighed.  
“I’ve always thought its far better to laugh at your sufferings than cry. Crying gets you nothing but a headache. Do you have anything sharp in your cell?” Lavellan pushed herself up on her knees. “For my plan to work, I need you to kill me just before the guards arrive.”  
“That is uncommon way to begin a plan to save a person, but at least it will take our guards by surprise.” Vivienne sighed. “I don’t think it will be any use to ask if you are all right, since you clearly are not. But I do have a thin, sharp iron rod keeping my corset in shape.”  
“It will have to do.”, Lavellan decided.

Many things passed through Lavellan’s mind as she knelt close to bars in her cell. She knew this was going to be the end, in one way or another. She didn’t believe she would rise from the death again. But she was not afraid. A strange sense of calm filled her mind. It was almost like faith. Yes. But not a faith towards Mythal, or any other god. She had decided what she was going to do, and the decision gave her strength. Her gods were nothing but mortals with mistakes, and even if she couldn’t save Dirthamen from Mythal’s revenge, or her world from Solas, she would save Vivienne. Roshan Lavellan had seen what vengeance bred, and she wanted no part of it. She would stop it, here and now.  
“We are the Dalish: keepers of the lost lore, walkers of the lonely path. We are the last of the Elvhenan and never again shall we submit.” she whispered the oath of the Dales, and her heart sang with fierce joy. It was what she was. Under the wrappings of Inquisition, under the memories of her countless deaths, under the leash held by the Well of Sorrows. She was daughter of her mother, sister of her brother, and First of Lavellan. She was Roshan of Clan Lavellan, and she would not submit.

Lavellan lifted up her gaze to Vivienne when she heard a door being opened, and smiled to Divine who held the sharp iron rod in her hands.  
“Now, Vivienne. Strike hard.” she commanded, and pushed her chin high to bare the soft and vulnerable flesh under her chin.  
Vivienne did as she was told, and when Lavellan tasted the blood and metal in her mouth, the Well of Sorrows began to sing in her mind.

 

 

When her spirit came back, the door to her cell was open. The guards were dragging Vivienne to somewhere while one of them was kneeling over her dead body, shaking his head. Her corpse looked pitiful. Lavellan had never made a habit of lingering around her dead remains, and she was not going to start now. There was no time.

She floated after Vivienne and the guards, watching carefully for the runes keeping her from her magic. Vivienne had worked out that the runes carved on the cell worked certain amount of time even after one was removed from the area of effect, but Lavellan was willing to bet Sylaise had not prepared for cursed vessels of Vir’Abelasan while designing her prison. Undead ghosts were too distasteful for people like Sylaise. And she was right.

When the guards dragging Vivienne passed through the dungeon area and the leader placed her hand against the magic locks to open the door to outside, Lavellan stepped through the wall. She cast a familiar spell to take a form, complete with her new Inquisition uniform, and felt the grass under her feet once more. A magic burned on her palm, and Lavellan bared her teeth in a welcoming smile when the door opened.

 

 

“Behind you, Herald!” Vivienne’s warning came too late. Lavellan didn’t have time to wonder why she was being called Herald instead of her name or the title of Inquisitor, when a sword impaled her through back. . Lavellan let out a scream, and blood spurted from her mouth as she saw the tip of the sword prodding out of her stomach. The battle seemed to freeze for a moment, when Lavellan took a staggering step forwards, then another, and the sword slid out from her. She heard the familiar call of death beckoning to her, but Well of Sorrows kept her from it, luring her back with the song she kept hearing. Lavellan turned around slowly to look at aghast elf with newly made vallaslin, lifted the staff she had looted from last group of enemies, and killed her with the sharp, bladed end.  
The rest of the Sylaise’s people scattered upon seeing that, and Lavellan bent down for a second, trying to catch her breath.  
“I don’t know how you do it, Herald, but it’s impressive.” Vivienne said.  
“It still hurts.” Lavellan said in pained voice. “Do you have any idea where your people are?”  
“No.”, Vivienne admitted. “Any rescuers must have positioned someone near the feast catered outside the manor. That is where the stake has been built, after all.”  
“Just my luck.” Lavellan muttered. “Keep your blade ready. We’re going in. I’ll try to draw attention, and--”  
“I’m here to help.” Cole manifested next to them. “We have been waiting for you.”  
“Cole.” Lavellan let out a breath of relief. “I’m so glad to see you.”  
“For once, so am I.”, Vivienne admitted.  
“I didn’t mean the Chantry, Vivienne. I was talking about me, Sorrow and Solas.” Cole replied apologetically. “They are going see you very soon, and he will fix his mistake.”  
“Oh, fenedhis!” Lavellan screamed, grabbed Vivienne’s hand and started to run towards the sound of the feast.

There was a large eluvian set near the grandest feast table, and Lavellan couldn’t help but curse the arrogance and sheer stupidity of Evanuris. Naturally the mirror looked great, especially with Sylaise’s fires reflecting from the crystalline surface, but it would give Mythal’s people a perfect chance to march on the Evanuris. Almost all of them were already seated with exception of Sylaise, who had reserved herself place in the middle of the table, between Dirthamen and Elgar’nan. Music was being played so loud that most of the people still hadn’t noticed anything was amiss in the back yard.  
“Now is time to run for your life.” Lavellan told Vivienne and picked up all the speed she could force from her magic and enchanted body. She pulled the Divine behind her, pushing her way through the crowd of elves with desperation. Sylaise’s guards were on their heels again, and Lavellan felt the dull thump of spell hitting Vivienne’s barrier.  
“Dirthamen!” she shouted, feeling like her lungs were going to burst. “I need you, _please_. Dirthamen!”  
She wasn’t sure if he heard her over the noise of the party, but her heart skipped a beat when she saw him pushing his chair back and leaving the table. Falon’Din looked alarmed, and went after him.  
“He’ll come.” Lavellan told Vivienne and threw herself in a fight against the first sentinel lunging for Vivienne.

Lavellan was gaping for a breath and trying to get air after being kneed in a stomach, when suddenly her attacker let go of her hair. There was a faint scent of ashes in the air, and when Lavellan wiped her eyes and turned to look, she saw Sylaise’s sentinels had turned into piles of ash. They were already scattered all over the grass.  
“That was an overkill, brother.” Falon’Din said to Dirthamen, whose purple eyes still glinted faintly.  
“Dirthamen. I need you to take Vivienne and leave.” Lavellan said, pushing the Divine towards the twins. “As far as you can get, as fast as you can get. A place not touch— Aargh!”  
The Well of Sorrows suddenly set the runes on her skin burning with cold flame, and for a moment, Lavellan couldn’t think a single thought.  
“Just go.” she said as soon as she managed to speak. “Please, Dirthamen. _Go_. Falon’Din. It’s—“  
“It’s the Veil.” Vivienne said clearly. Lavellan couldn’t understand how she managed to look so regal even with blood all over her. “Solas and Mythal’s people are going to tear it down. Probably with plans to imprison you as well. I can’t say I’d be sorry to see that happen.”  
“And what about you? Or father?” Dirthamen asked.  
“Warn him if you can.”, Lavellan said. “But you have to leave now. They will be here any moment.”  
“What she means is that she is staying behind to stop Solas, and we should get going.” Vivienne said firmly.  
“What do you think you are to order around your betters?” Falon’Din asked sharply.  
“ _I_ am Divine Victoria, and if you insist being foolish and continuing this discussion instead of making a strategic retreat, _you_ will be nothing but a dead elf.” Vivienne said to Falon’Din.  
Lavellan cursed herself inwardly, sure that Falon’Din would kill Vivienne on spot, but to her surprise, Falon’Din nodded and grabbed Dirthamen by arm. Vivienne, quick to think as always, slipped her hand around Falon’Din’s arm.  
“We’re leaving.” Falon’Din decided. “I’m not going back to prison.”  
Lavellan felt a major surge of magic, and then they were just gone.  
“What did you just do?” Sylaise demanded. She was standing under a glow of lovely, fiery tree, wearing her stolen hair and the stolen nails.  
“I saved what was best of Evanuris.” Lavellan told her and attacked the bitch.  
She got one strike against Sylaise, scarring the perfect skin, but then the Evanuris spoke one word of power and Lavellan started to burn like living torch against the darkening night. She screamed and wept as she rolled on the ground, but fire didn’t go out. Last thing she remembered was the sky changing into deep green as a tearing noise echoed across the realm.

\--

 

When she woke up, she was no longer at Sylaise’s mansion, but in the temple of Sacred Ashes. Or what had been the temple of Sacred Ashes, once, before Conclave and Corypheus. Now it was nothing but a collapsed ruin, but it was not empty. Every stone left standing had an elven artefact placed on it. The artefacts made swirling noises, moving faster and faster. She realized she had misunderstood Cole’s words, and Solas was not going to come to Sylaise’s party to meet her. Instead she had been brought to this place after she died. The Well was singing in her mind, like it had done all day.  
“Your brother will finish his work soon.”, Abelas said, offering her a hand to help her up. There were something wrong with his eyes. They were golden, like before, but Lavellan had an eerie feeling of somebody else looking through them. He didn’t feel like Abelas.  
“Mythal.”, she said, swallowing.  
“You should not be so surprised. You have called for me many times since we last met.”, a familiar chuckle escaped Abelas’ lips. “And now your world stands on a brink of destruction, and my revenge is almost done.”  
“Your revenge is pointless.” Lavellan said, feeling the helpless fury burning inside her. “It was a mistake. A grievous mistake. You can’t keep punishing Dirthamen for it forever. He doesn’t deserve that. I will not let it happen.”  
“Once I felt such a fierce love, too.” Abelas replied with Mythal’s words. “And still I was betrayed, as world was betrayed. The People were ruined. Tell me, girl, if you truly believe what you say? I know the doubts in your mind. You can’t even say what are your own thoughts and feelings, and what are brought by Well.”  
“Solas believed you were the best of Evanuris.”, Lavellan glared at her slaver. “He loved you. He still loves you. Your family loved you, but I haven’t seen anything like the women they describe. You can’t treat people like toys. If that was you wanted to stop, you have failed terribly, and it’s no-one’s fault but yours. But I don’t have time to argue with you; I have to stop Solas.”  
Abelas merely acknowledged her words with a nod, and just stood there when Lavellan started to run towards Solas. She knew the spot; the Breach was already starting to open but it was different. This time, everything was green.

She moved like through a dream. Lavellan couldn’t tell how it had happened, but it felt like the Fade was bleeding to waking world, and it was not happening gently. The stones moved on their own accord beneath her feet, and suddenly a gaping hole opened where there had been none before. The most frightening thing was that when she focused her will to move the stones and get past the gorge, the magic came to her as easily as she had bathed herself in Dirthamen’s glitter. Closer she got to hubris of the spell, more her senses opened. It felt something was torn open inside her, but Lavellan knew that fighting it was impossible, and her fear would only summon angry spirits to stop her. She willed herself relax, even though it was hard, and concentrated on the memory from the inn. She summoned back the feeling of daffodil fluff, and the sound of Dirthamen’s voice, no longer blocked by Veil. She thought of glitter sparkling on his skin, and her own feelings poured over like too much water spilled from a full glass. But she was not afraid, and she continued even though the shreds of breaking Veil tore at her. The pain was just a feeling, too.

Lavellan found Solas from the calm centre of the spell. His eyes shone icy blue, and he held his arms wide as the world burned in raw chaos around them. There was an unbroken eluvian behind her.  
“You have gotten this far.”, Well’s voices whispered in her ear. “Ten steps, girl, and it is done.”  
Lavellan didn’t understand how Mythal was there again, but she took one step after another. She screamed and wept when the force of Solas’ magic tore through her, and she fell down only to be pulled back from death a moment later. Solas looked at her with sad yet determined expression, and did nothing.  
“Solas!” Lavellan screamed. “I know you are still there! I know you were Mythal’s slave, and you still are. Stop it! Bringing down the Veil will not bring her back.”  
He didn’t answer. The keening sound of artefacts was hurting her ears, now, and to her horror, Lavellan saw they were glowing green, now. Just like June’s machine before the explosion. Oh, no. She jumped forwards, throwing herself at Solas’ feet, and suddenly it was all quiet.

They stood in the eye of the storm, and the Veil ripped like a shroud wrapped around the death of her world.  
“Solas.”, Lavellan choked as she stood up. “Why you never told me? I never understood why you didn’t want me to drink from the Well, but you didn’t warn me against it, either. But you couldn’t. You couldn’t, because you were Mythal’s servant, too.”  
“Yes.” his words fell heavy between them. “Even though they are old, weakened ties, they still bind me to her after a fashion. But as you know, there are limits to her ability to control so many at the same time, diminished as she is. I was free for a time.”  
“But you are not free now?” Lavellan asked, fearing the answer. She felt like her heart was breaking. Oh, Solas.  
“After I lost my orb, I had to find another way to gain more power, and I took what power remained of Mythal. It cost me my freedom, even if some went to her heir.” Solas replied, and Lavellan saw his features twisting in grief.  
“But Mythal didn’t want to tear down the Veil, because she saw us as real.”, Lavellan whispered. “She wanted me to hurt the Evanuris. Like she was hurt by them.”  
“And you have done just that.” Solas said, and there was pride in his voice Lavellan didn’t like. He bent down and lifted Lavellan’s chin up, pressing a cool kiss on her forehead.  
She felt something being pulled out of her, and suddenly Lavellan felt very strange. It was… She felt weak. And hollow. So very hollow. And the silence was suddenly pierced by the sound of artefacts breaking, one by one. The eye of the storm where they stood broke, and Lavellan felt like she had been doused with glitter. The world around her was burning, and the Veil was gone.

“I wasn’t sure if you would survive that.” Solas said a moment later. “I thought your people lacked the capacity to adapt to so much magic.”  
Lavellan was kneeling on the ground, heaving the contents of her empty stomach on the stones. She brought up only bile. Thinking what had just happened, how many had not survived the Veil, made her retch again.  
“It is like the glitter.” she said, wiping her mouth. “Dirthamen’s glitter. The exact same thing. And I wondered why ancients were obsessed with it.”  
Solas ignored her, and walked to eluvian which was miraculously still intact. He was pushing something through it, and his eyes were glowing the eerie light Lavellan had learned to hate.  
“It is done.” Solas said in satisfied voice. “The Evanuris are back where they belong. They doomed themselves, proving they have not changed, or learned anything in all years of their imprisonment.”  
“No.”, Lavellan said, and tears started to fall from her eyes. “It isn’t fair.”  
She began to weep for her utter failure. The Veil was gone, and the Evanuris were imprisoned, and Solas who had valued his freedom higher than anything else was nothing but Mythal’s slave. Just like her. She wept, and her body was racked by sobs.  
“You wanted an answer for your question.” Solas said. “It is true. I let you die on purpose. It was Mythal’s will. Death is a binding, a transition, and I needed someone the Evanuris didn’t know.”  
“Even though”, Solas said quietly, “I think you didn’t deserve this fate, vhenan.”  
For a moment, only sounds breaking the silence were Lavellan’s own heartbeats and her quieting sobs. It was then when she understood the Well was no longer singing.  
“Solas.”, she said slowly, standing up. “I would like to offer you a gift. A gift I know you appreciate more than anything else.”  
Solas watched her with careful eyes, and Lavellan added:  
“A gift you have offered to me, twice. I think that you need it more than I do.”  
“Even a wolf can be broken in dragon’s jaws.” Solas said, and there was no trace of Mythal in his voice. His cadences, his sad smile were all his own for a moment. “I would be honoured to have one last kiss from you, vhenan. I never wanted to go through this alone.”  
They stepped closer to each other. Solas cupped her face with his hand, and murmured against her lips.  
“I will never forget you, my heart.”  
Lavellan tasted salt on his lips, and she held back her tears as she put her arms around his neck, finding the cord which held the wolf jaw necklace. Deepening the kiss, she ignored the slow glimmer of bright blue starting to cloud Solas’ grey eyes, and took the wolf jaw between her hands.  
“Ar lasa masa revas, Solas.” Lavellan said as she broke the bone in two.

 

\--

It was a terrible thing to kill a god. Lavellan sat alone in the ruins of the temple and watched the world burn around her. Solas in her arms was heavy and cold. There was a faint smile on his lips, and it offered Lavellan some comfort. Death had released him, at least.

She sat there she was until her legs became numb, and she felt fairly certain that she could stand up without retching again. Then she lowered Solas on the ground gently and placed the broken wolf jaw on his chest, closing his eyes with her hand. The fire spell came to her so easily. Setting his corpse on fire didn’t seem to require more than a thought. It was effortless, and Lavellan couldn’t help but thinking what this ease would mean to those who had survived the upheaval. If any had survived except her and the ancients who had not been with Evanuris. The war between templars and mages had been bad enough as it had been. Now it had potential to be far worse.

But it was no use to paint the future darker than it had to be, Lavellan reminded herself. She had been one to argue Solas and Dirthamen how they should give her world more time than few measly years before deciding it was beyond saving. Now Lavellan felt obligated to give this new one a similar chance, no matter how badly it smarted her.

She let the wind to spread his ashes, and started to walk towards Skyhold, not knowing where else to go.

\--

 

Few days later Lavellan was just trying to figure out how to cross a large lake which was not supposed to exist on Frostback Mountains, when she heard noise from the woods. It was a bear, staring at her.  
“Not you again.” Lavellan felt slightly hysterical. “You were supposed to be dead. Or imprisoned.”  
The bear glared at her very unhappily, and looked like it was trying to make up its mind about something.  
“Are you really Dirthamen or not? What’s the truth about bears being beloved by him?” Lavellan asked.  
The bear didn’t deign to answer.  
“I don’t want to spend rest of my life confessing my feelings to bears. It’s starting to get embarrassing.” Lavellan told the animal. “But if he managed to escape in time and you see him somewhere, tell him that I miss him. And I love him.”  
The bear growled, and a burn of jealousy sparked in small, beady eyes. It came on her, swinging the huge paws. It was just like Hinterlands. Lavellan screeched as the sharp nails racked a deep wound across her side.  
“Oh, for fuck’s sake!” she screamed furiously as she cast up a barrier. “I didn’t survive the Veil coming down and all those deaths only to be killed by a jealous bear! No wonder why he didn’t have a girlfriend.”  
The bear roared something utterly incomprehensible and stood on its back legs. Lavellan started to cast a Veilstrike to bring it down, only to note there was no Veil to use for manipulating the energies. Her entire specialization, including her best fighting spells, was outdated and therefore useless. Damnit. She never should have wanted to be Rift Mage because Solas had made it sound so interesting.  
“I hate this!” she yelled at the bear and threw Winter’s grasp at the beast. It didn’t do much good, so Lavellan started to run, hoping the trick with the Well still worked. But with Solas and most of Mythal’s power gone, she wasn’t certain at all whether she would die for real this time.

She crashed through the woods, pressing her hand against her bleeding side. The bear was at her heels, always gaining no matter how many Fade Steps she took. Even they didn’t work right, since the Fade was bleeding into real world and she always ended up in unexpected places, sometimes ten meters behind her starting point. At least it seemed to confuse the furious bear.

 

The bear charged on all fours, holding its head low. The impact sent Lavellan sprawling on the ground, and the bear rose on its hind legs. Lavellan conjured a fireball, throwing it at the bear which seemed to get only angrier when its fur started to smoke.  
“This is unfair!” she screamed at her death as she barely managed to roll aside when the bear’s claws swiped down. “I never even kissed him, you stupid bear!”

The bear lunged down for another swipe, but it suddenly stopped in the middle of motion. Behind the bear, she saw a glimpse of ridiculously dramatic black cape flowing in the wind, and her heart skipped a beat.  
“What in the Void you think you are doing?” Dirthamen asked from the bear in clipped tones. “I told your kind to search for her, not to attack her.”  
The bear turned around, and lowered its snout against the ground, like ashamed dog. It made a pitiful noise, and Lavellan would have pitied the creature if she wasn’t bleeding. Ignoring the sharp pain in her side, she pushed herself up in sitting position.  
“You are no longer my favourite.” Dirthamen said coldly. “You are no better than foxes and hares. Keeping a secret is worth nothing if I can’t trust you. Now get away from my sight, bear.”  
If a bear could have cried, it would have. It slumped away, slipping one last vengeful look at Lavellan, and then crashed into forest, wailing loudly.  
“What just happened?” Lavellan asked weakly. She felt dizzy.  
“The usual.” Dirthamen said, kneeling in front of her. “I let you out of my sight for a second, and someone is trying to kill you. It’s starting to get incredibly annoying.”

He muttered something about unworthiness of bears as he carefully probed the wound at her side.  
“I think I might die for real.” Lavellan told him. “Mythal’s spell keeping me alive was concluded, even though the Well remains.”  
“You aren’t dying on me now, Roshan. Or ever again.” Dirthamen said emphatically and placed his hand over the wound. Lavellan hissed as her flesh began to knit itself together again. The sensation was disorienting, like most sensations in a world without Veil, but as soon as her skin was whole again, she felt much better.  
“Are you still angry at me?” Lavellan asked carefully. “We didn’t part in the best terms, and there wasn’t any time to talk at Sylaise’s.”  
“I can’t say your tendency to get constantly killed doesn’t bother me.”, Dirthamen said, sitting next to her. “I’ve thought of little else lately. But I would prefer to move into next part, now.”  
“Which is?”  
“Kiss and make up.”, he said with a faint smile. “If you feel up to it.”  
Lavellan felt butterflies in her stomach, and a foolish smile spread on her face.  
“I still love you. Even though the curse is gone.” she said, the tips of her ears turning pink. “I’d be delighted.”  
His smile deepened, and Dirthamen slipped his arm around her.  
“I hope I can live up to your expectations.” he sighed theatrically, pulling her on his lap. “The bears mentioned something about terrible, sloppy kisser, with lots of drool and too much tongue.”  
“They are all liars.” Lavellan said very seriously. “I have no idea of what you are talking about. You shouldn’t beli—“  
Her defence against slandering bears was interrupted by a kiss which wasn’t terrible or sloppy at all. It was slow and quite perfect. She buried her fingers in Dirthamen’s hair, and warmth bloomed inside her, stirring another feeling and a memory Lavellan had almost forgotten. Yes. His hair was sufficiently long, now, even though not as long as it had been.  
“I think”, she said a bit breathlessly “that we should go home. If your islet still stands. I have plans, and if Falon’Din or another bear or varterral or anyone walks on us and interrupts me, I’m going to kill them.”  
“Should I be worried?” he asked, sliding his hands slowly upwards under her shirt.  
“Maybe.”, Lavellan smiled and pushed him down. “I think you should just wait and see what happens. Things are usually far more interesting that way.”  


She kissed him again, and the world changed around them, quietly and effortlessly. The forest was gone, and they were in familiar, quiet room in the first floor of his house.  
“Gaidhalas.”, he whispered as Lavellan threw his shirt on the floor, and then hers, as well. The purple in his eyes had darkened to almost black.  
She opened his short braid with great care. It looked lovely against the white pillows, just like she had always thought.  
“My love.” she whispered back, and began.

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There is a proper epilogue coming up next week, so if you have questions, drop a comment and I'll sneak answers into epilogue. And some people have been asking about sequel.


	12. Epilogue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Everyone is happy. For different reasons.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The part of Dalish oath used here is from Project Elvhen by Fenxshiral, marked with italics.

She basked in his love, feeling soft and content. Lavellan hid her face against Dirthamen’s neck, and quietly marvelled at the feeling of his bare skin against hers. The world had become a strange place where time was curiously removed from actions, but this one thing she treasured. Her fingertips drew languid circles on his back, sparking magic which spoke of things she could not put into words, yet. Here feelings were real enough to touch and thoughts could be shared without speech.

He sought her mouth, and when the kiss intensified, she saw something from the corner of her eye. Butterflies, in deep and vibrant colours, scattered in all directions.  
"Beautiful.", she breathed, and he smiled, feeling foolishly proud like a boy for bringing that look of wonderment in her eyes.  
"I would fill the world with butterflies for you.” he whispered a secret in her ear. It was true. Dirthamen wanted to keep her like this forever. Her heartbeat under his hand was strong and a gift as itself. Like all gifts, it was to be cherished, as long as he’d have it.  
The thought came to him like a brush of an unformed spirit, new and still unfinished, but it felt right. The words of a memory were not his, but suddenly Dirthamen found himself thinking what it would be like. What it was like, now, laying in entangle of fabric and bare limbs and holding her. He looked at Roshan, whose eyes were half-closed as she snuggled against him, and the small, serene smile on her lips. Something new, unseen woke inside him. It bloomed, filling his heart with wishes and hopes and deep yearning.

 _“My promise_.” he began uncertainly, not remembering how it went. “ _You shall have first cut of my meat. First sip of my wine...”_  
Roshan opened her eyes, and put a finger on his lips.  
“That is the second part of a promise, vhenan.” she said. “Don’t rush.”  
“I don’t know the ways of your People.” Dirthamen admitted. “But I wanted to ask… Will you stay?”  
He felt uncomfortable and too vulnerable as he waited for her answer.  
_“You cannot have me, I own myself._  
_But while we wish, I give what is mine to give._  
_You cannot command me, I am a free person._  
_But I shall serve you in the ways you need_  
_and the fruit shall taste sweet, coming from my hand._ ” Roshan recited.

 

\--

Elgar’nan pushed Falon’Din aside as they bent over a scrying pool. He was the father; he was entitled for best viewing place see this even if Falon’Din was the master scryer. It had been months since they had gotten any news of Dirthamen, and they both were starting to get impatient.  
“Turn the spell louder.” Elgar’nan demanded. “I need to hear this.”  
“I’m not certain I want to hear this.” Falon’Din muttered but did what he was told.  
“But I shall serve you in the ways you need.” they heard Dirthamen’s voice reciting seriously. The image wasn’t sharp, but they could see two naked elves entangled in bedsheets, holding each other. “And the fruit shall taste sweet, coming from my hand.”  
“Yes!” Elgar’nan made a fist pump and jumped with glee. The impact of him landing shattered the vision floating on water. “Senris! Did you hear it?”  
“I did, my lord.” Senris said neutrally. “How will we proceed?”  
“We’ll throw a feast. Naturally. It’s not every day my son gets engaged. And she’s such a nice girl!”  
“I thought you hated Lavellan!” Falon’Din looked taken aback.  
“Of course not. She killed the Wolf, and I’d love anyone who did that, even if the person wasn’t as badass as she is.”, Elgar’nan pointed out. “I knew she was a good one after I killed her and she still returned in time for dessert. Besides, without her timely intervention, your brother wouldn’t have had time to warn me, and we three would be trapped as surely as the rest of our brethren. I can’t ask more from a future daughter-in-law.”  
A pleased look spread on Elgar’nan’s face as he leaned against the table.  
“Think about it, Falon’Din. Century or two in that hideout with nothing else to do except make love, and nature will eventually take its course. _Grandchildren._ I can already imagine a little da’len sitting on my knee while I read books. Those two will have lovely, ferocious children. We’ll redecorate my palace now that the pesky Veil isn’t interfering with renovation, and add a nursery, so it’ll be ready when it’s needed.”  
“I think I feel sick.” Falon’Din wailed.  
“Don’t even think of going there and bothering your brother.” Elgar’nan warned sternly. “If you do, I’ll trash you. New lovers need their privacy.”

\--

“Is there any news about Inquisitor?” a female voice asked behind a dressing screen.  
Falon’Din shrugged as he admired his image from a mirror. The ball was going to start soon, and he was quite pleased with his appearance.  
“Still making out with my brother as far as I know.”  
“I find that extremely unlikely, my dear. It’s been four months.”  
“I assure you, they’re still at it. Father is thrilled and doesn’t even care Dirthamen is skipping family dinners. Last Saturday, I heard father actually slipping the dreaded d-word while planning redecorations to his palace.” Falon’Din shook his head.  
“What is d-word?”  
“D as _da’len_. “, Falon’Din said gravelly. “Yuch.”  
His guest sighed with annoyance.  
“Even though I respect the Inquisitor, I’m disappointed to see she is still unable to control her romantic aspirations from interfering with everything else. She never seems to learn. We could have used her presence here tonight. ”  
“Mm, but she might be tricky to control. If Well of Sorrows couldn’t make her do what Mythal wanted, I’m not certain it’s worth trying. It might be a bit harder to rally people without so-called Andraste Reborn, but I think we can charm a room full of nobles between two of us.” Falon’Din said thoughtfully.  
“It was shrewd suggestion from you to subtly support the cultists. It has brought many to heel.” she acknowledged.  
“I know. I’m perfect.” Falon’Din smiled.  
“There is a fine line between justified self-admiration and bragging, dear. Do mind the difference.” his guest advised through a rustle of brocade. “Even though when you speak with Comtesse du Soissons, you would do well to remind her that gods do not follow the rules of men. She has been making noises about our understanding.”  
“I would be far more pleased to defend our understanding if it actually went as far as Comtesse claims.” Falon’Din said, looking admiringly at woman who stepped into his sight. “You could take off the ugly gown, and keep the hat on. I like the hat. It's odd.”  
“That might work on your usual company, dear, but not on me. For me, you need to work far harder.” Divine Victoria stated and extended her hand to Falon’Din. “Come, then. Orlais is waiting.”

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There is a sequel here http://archiveofourown.org/works/5117726/chapters/11773796


End file.
